And We Shall Rise
by mackillian
Summary: As Morrigan continues her work beyond the Fade, Malcolm, Líadan, and the rest left behind on Thedas chase leads and seek refuge as they try to evade the fires of change. AU. Sequel to Their Shallow Graves.
1. Chapter 1

**And We Shall Rise**

"When darkness comes

and swallows light

heed our words

and we shall rise."

—excerpt from _The Ballad of Ayesleigh_, 5:20 Exalted

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us."

—_Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Leliana**

**9:30 Dragon**

"What have you there?"

One thing Leliana had learned while traveling with Morrigan for such a long time was that Morrigan was curious. She suspected it was so because of how Morrigan had been raised—a lonely child, her only company the Korcari Wilds and Flemeth. People were a curiosity to her, curiosity in how they worked and how they felt in comparison to her. It made Morrigan entirely too observant, and never hesitant to voice her observations, especially if it suited to make another person uncomfortable.

Morrigan, Leliana had found, loved to make her feel uncomfortable, as she had just done. "It is nothing."

"And that is why you cling to it so tightly?"

Leliana looked down at the small vial tucked away in her hand, which none of the others had seen, not even when she'd filled it. Which meant of course Morrigan noticed. Morrigan had been right, however. Her hand held the vial tightly, lest she drop something of such import. "It is nothing to you."

"No? 'Tis powerful magic you hide in your hand, bard. It is of interest to me."

"I hold no magic, Morrigan, whatever you might think. Perhaps you see the remnants of my having been in the presence of the ashes of the Maker's Chosen." Leliana picked up her pace, hoping to pull ahead of the witch.

In a true expression of her interest, Morrigan matched Leliana's speed. "'Tis something more solid than your foolish belief. What do you hold?"

"A pinch of the most holy relic on Thedas. It is not magic you feel. It is the Maker's light, the Maker's hope and love."

"I think you believe me stupid if you expect me to fall for your vapid act of faith. What you hold now in your hand is magic. Unlike your faith, magic is real. The others may not feel it, but the magic rolls off it in waves. And here you walk, speaking of a prophet you burned and a god who has turned His back on you not once, but twice, instead of acknowledging the reality of what you hold—powerful magic. Open your eyes, or it will consume you."

Before Leliana could respond, there was a shift in the wind, and then Morrigan was gone, having taken to the skies in her raven form. Leliana dreaded the apostate's return, when she would surely inform the others of what Leliana had taken. Then Morrigan surprised her.

She told no one.

**9:32 Dragon**

Though Mother Dorothea had expressed the belief to Leliana that Wynne could be swayed to their cause, she had not mentioned the difficulty of the task.

Wynne was not easily swayed. Nor was she easily convinced, persuaded, coaxed, cajoled, or coerced. She did not receive Mother Dorothea's invitation well, and Leliana's appearance only made the situation exponentially more difficult.

"You." Wynne jabbed a finger in her direction. "What you have done—"

"I followed the Maker's will, as best I could," said Leliana. Though she again fervently believed in the truth of her mission, and she was a trained bard, her words did little to convey her fervor. The explanation fell flat.

For Wynne, the explanation fell so flat it shattered. "Then I would have to question your interpretation of what you believe the Maker said to you, to do such reprehensible things to people whom you named friend." Indicating her readiness to leave, her eyes flicked more than once to the closed door of Grand Cleric Philippa's borrowed study.

"It is the only explanation I have. It was not done to cause pain, even though it did."

"It certainly did. You hurt every single one of us with your grand ploy. Most of all, you hurt Alistair." Wynne held Leliana's gaze, her narrowed eyes containing both hurt and accusation. "During the Blight, I had come to know Alistair as a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it came to affairs of the heart. I never wanted to see him—or any of you—get hurt. As I watched, his relationship with you blossomed, and I had come to believe there was nothing I needed to be concerned over. I had believed you to be sincere and guileless; that you had opened your heart to him as much as he had to you. When you died—when we all had believed you died—it crushed him."

"It changed him, yes? For the better." Though, Leliana often wished that Alistair's shift in outlook hadn't come at such a great expense.

For a moment, Wynne looked to object, her mouth even opening to deliver her objection. Then she pressed her lips into a firm, disapproving line before she spoke again. "Yes, it did. The experience forged him into who he is today, his emotions battle-hardened and his sense of self secure. But it took a lot of pain to put him through that growth, and you were the one to hurt him."

"Not every plan the Maker has for us to walk is guaranteed to be empty of pain. Andraste is merely one example, as is Archon Hessarian, Disciple Havard, or perhaps even Maferath. Without his betrayal, Andraste never would have fulfilled her purpose."

"So you compare yourself Maferath?"

"If I am, I have yet to be forgiven, as he was."

The accusation in Wynne's eyes lessened, and her expression became more thoughtful. "Maferath's forgiveness was granted in the Canticle of Silence—a Dissonant Verse, and thus stricken from Chantry record."

"Yet, it is a verse each one of us knows," Dorothea said quietly. When Wynne gave her a startled look, Dorothea answered with a small smile. Then she asked, "You show scholarship of the Chant, even the Dissonant Verses. Do you believe?"

"I do, to some extent." Suspicion returned to Wynne's face. "Why do you ask?"

"From record, it is easy to see you are a good person—"

"If you think flattery will get you anywhere—"

"I am not going in the direction you believe I am, Senior Enchanter. I do not seek to flatter you. What I want to know is why you do the good works you do. If you would be so kind as to tell me, why do you?"

At first, Wynne's initial silence made Leliana believe she would not answer.

And then Wynne said, "Because I enjoy it. I enjoy teaching others and helping them. I do not seek recognition or approval from my peers, or a distant god." The last was a point all on its own, and her eyes flung it at the two representatives of the Chantry. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Dorothea nodded. "It does."

"Good." Wynne gave a nod of her own, and turned to Leliana. "Now I wish to satisfy a curiosity of my own. Help me to understand why I should even contemplate helping you or anyone or anything else to do with you, considering what you have done."

It was a valid question, and yet Leliana struggled to find a suitable answer. Everything she thought of seemed trite, and would fall as flatly as her answer from before. Wynne was no fool, however, and would see through dishonesty from her after all that had happened. "We wish to change the world."

To Leliana's surprise, Wynne chuckled. "You don't envision anything small, do you, child? Tell me, how would you change it?"

"Things as they are... they are not fair." Then Leliana struggled for the right words to describe what she felt in her heart, what she saw in their future—should she be able to help it come to fruition.

Dorothea saw her stumble, and offered her help by taking up what Leliana could not. "The magi are the Maker's children as much as any of us are," Dorothea said to Wynne. "Yet, they are not treated so by the very people who claim to spread the Maker's word, who claim to spread the Maker's love and guidance. If the Chantry does not adhere to the Maker's precepts, the Chant that will one day spread to the four corners of the world will not be sung correctly, and He will not return."

"So it is not about the dignity of the magi at all?"

"Of course it is. The very act of giving mages the dignity deserved of any of the Maker's creations will change the world all on its own."

"How will this change be accomplished, Your Reverence?"

Wynne's use of Dorothea's title allowed Leliana to hope that she had been swayed. It was the first time in the entire negotiation—for this was no mere conversation—that Wynne had used it.

"By following a plan that has been in place for decades," Dorothea said without hesitation. "There will be a day when we will have need of a spirit healer who is wise and can provide others with guidance. We believe that to be you, Senior Enchanter. When the time comes, Seeker Leliana will find you, and then the two of you will work together to bring about the change we all seek."

"If I were to agree, I could not depart immediately."

Dorothea shook her head. "No need. There is a journey Leliana must take first, and you have your own duties to attend, Senior Enchanter. We have all heard the new Theirin heir will be born soon, and that you have been asked to help with the delivery."

Wynne nodded before she looked at Leliana. "How long?"

"I am not sure. Weeks, perhaps months. One must protect their friends, even when they will not protect themselves. I will return after it is finished, and we will begin our work then."

Wynne studied Leliana for a while, taking a measure for standards to which Leliana was not privy. Yet, Leliana did not look away, for if she were to come up short in Wynne's estimation, she would come up short for everything she was.

Then Wynne said, "I will help."

That Leliana did not sigh out loud with relief was a credit to her training as a bard, but it was a close thing.

The next morning, Leliana began her trip across Ferelden to the market outside Orzammar's gates. Once there, it took time, gold, and other efforts she was not fond of, but the arrangements were made. Surface dwarves who still considered themselves miners—for they knew no other trade—had been convinced to dig near an unstable portion of the steep mountainsides bordering Gherlen's Pass. The Carta had been convinced to temporarily engage in the trade of highwaymen, to which they easily took, along Gherlen's Pass. For a few days, they preyed upon unsuspecting carriages, relieving them of cargo before allowing them to continue to Orlais, albeit with a lightened load. On a day when Leliana had infiltrated the mining camp, the Carta stopped a carriage bearing the heraldry of Redcliffe. The Carta took the gold, the jewels, and the babe inside. Above the pass, directly above the halted carriage in particular, mining had not ceased. There was an unfortunate misjudgment from an unduly influenced miner, the results of which tumbled down the mountainside in a rush of rocks and boulders. Aside from the abducted babe, none survived.

Shortly thereafter, the Carta gave up their new line of work, and the illegal mining practice ceased. The babe was brought to King Bhelen, along with bodies pulled from the rockslide and the story of how the babe had been found nearby. Messages were sent out, the human Chantry contacted, and investigators sent back to identify the dead. Once they had, another message was sent to Denerim, to inform Ferelden's king of the deaths of subjects that had almost become former subjects.

Leliana would never tell Alistair what had truly happened. She knew he would suspect, but she would never confirm it. It was better for him not to know for sure.

Weeks later, after another round of messages, the birth of a royal heir, and a long overdue wedding, Leliana met Wynne outside Denerim. They had two horses and supplies to last for weeks, if necessary. What they did not have was camaraderie, for Leliana's deeds during the Blight had destroyed what ties they had formed back then. For days, they engaged in no real conversations, riding and camping with a silence so immense it seemed its own person.

Silence had never been something Leliana tolerated well outside the walls of a chantry.

"The Chantry ceremony for Malcolm and Líadan was lovely, no?"

Though she did not divert her gaze from the road ahead, Wynne asked, "You were there?"

"Hidden, yes, but I wanted to see. They were my friends, Wynne, though they will never view me as such again."

Wynne slowly turned and peered at her for a moment. "You were the one who arranged for the dispensation, weren't you?"

"It was Revered Mother Dorothea's work."

"Brought to her attention by you."

"Perhaps." Not wanting to return to the oppressive silence, Leliana kept talking, but changed the subject. "How is the new prince?"

"Do you truly wish to hear the answer?" asked Wynne. "Or are you punishing yourself by listening to what you might have had?"

Leliana rocked a little in the saddle, caught off guard by the painfully accurate observation. "A… little of both."

"He is a beautiful boy."

It was a kindness that Wynne said nothing more about him, or about the boy's parents. It was Leliana who kept the silence, after that.

"Where are we going?" Wynne asked the next morning. "I had thought we would go to Orlais."

"We are. It is not healthy for me to stay in Ferelden, yet I have one final task to complete before I leave, possibly for good."

"And just what is this task?"

Leliana tilted her head as she searched for the right way to describe it. Then it came to her, an idea from heart to mind. "A pilgrimage."

The message from long ago had instructed Leliana to bury the ashes, and she had—for both the plan the message referred to, and the ashes she'd held since their visit to the Frostbacks. Leaving Ferelden as she was, she needed to bring them with her, and to do that, she needed to find them. If she left them, they stood the chance of falling into the hands of a freeholder plowing his field, or a young child digging for whatever it was children dug for. If a person such as those found the vial, they wouldn't know what they held, and they would cast them away. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen.

The ashes were important, after all.

The detour added a more than a week's travel to their trip, taking the West Road to the Imperial Highway before cutting south just after Redcliffe. When they passed the clearing the army had used as a camp after Leliana's last battle, she did not look at it. It was part of her past that she would not regret, not any longer. To look at it now would only invite regret to return, and so she did not look. Wynne said nothing, and for that, Leliana was grateful. Only when they stepped into the fallow field north of Honnleath did Wynne break her silence.

"This is the field where the majority of the Battle of Honnleath took place," she said.

"I know," said Leliana.

Wynne let out a huff, but said nothing more as she followed the bard to the opposite side of the field. At the base of an oak tree, a large black rock poked from the ground. There, the ashes had been buried, between rock and tree. Leliana fell to her knees and set to digging with the small shovel she'd borrowed from a freeholder's barn. This task was about Andraste, so the transgression of stealing would be forgiven.

It didn't take long until Leliana uncovered the wooden box that held a leather pouch, which, in turn, held the vial of ashes. She opened the box.

There it rested. A portion of the ashes of the Maker's bride, Andraste.

Wynne, who had been gazing out at the field where so many had died, whipped around as Leliana lifted the pouch from the box. "Those are the ashes," she said, her voice hard with accusation. "They should be returned to their resting place."

Leliana hadn't expected Wynne to be so against her possessing the ashes. Nor did she look forward to a trip into the Frostbacks unless it was through Gherlen's Pass. "I do not know if—"

"You had no right to take them."

"I believe I had more right to them than Arl Eamon." As Wynne seemed to consider it, Leliana stood up. "They should not have been used for a man who ended up committing treason."

"In the light of recent events, I agree they were wasted on him. Perhaps no one had a right to take them."

Leliana looked Wynne directly in the eyes, unwilling to back down after all their trials. "We all went through the gauntlet, Wynne, not just Alistair. We all faced the challenges presented, and we were all allowed access to Andraste's ashes. I took a pinch, as we were all told we could. Nothing more."

Wynne did not look convinced. "You are equivocating. Those ashes belong in their rightful place, not carried about in some common pouch. They hold too much power for any one of us to handle. The temple was absolutely rife with strong magic, and the same magic resides in those ashes you hold. You should see them returned."

While Leliana wasn't certain that Wynne's demand was the best path for them to take, she did want to see if they could once again find the resting place of the Maker's bride. "Will you accompany me?"

"I would be honored to visit Her resting place again."

They left the shovel and empty hole behind. The box they burned that night in their campfire.

At the top of the mountain, past the abandoned village of Haven, they found only a mountaintop: bleak and cold, the sky shrouded in clouds, bare grey tips of rocks breaking through the blanket of snow. There was nothing there for them, as if there had never been.

"Perhaps I should scatter them," said Leliana. She held her voice to just beyond a whisper, as if they risked being hunted if they spoke any louder.

"No. If the temple has disappeared, then there must be some meaning to your still having the ashes you took." Wynne didn't look at Leliana. Instead, she focused her gaze on where the temple had once been, if they had not collectively imagined it. "You are their guardian, but for what purpose, it is not ours to know."

"We should leave." Leliana felt compelled to do so, rushed, as if danger waited for them if they dallied any longer. "Mother Dorothea waits for us. She has questions to which we do not know the answers, and so she wants them investigated."

"What sort of questions?"

"She would like to see if Tranquility can be reversed. She wants to know if Tranquility can be done in such a way that it does not rob a mage of their mind and soul."

Wynne abruptly turned from the missing temple to the woman at her side. "You have whatever aid I can provide."

Leliana nodded. "Then we go."

As they descended, Leliana thought she heard the low flap of high dragon's wings. She did not look back. There was nothing for her there.

**9:38 Dragon**

Once she had the ashes, Leliana did not return to Ferelden for a long time. Alistair had made it clear she was not welcome there, as threats of death often did. She did not wish to force him to kill her, or be forced to kill him, so she stayed away. Wynne split her time between doing the Divine's work with researching Tranquility, and with being the sometimes court healer for the King of Ferelden. Because Alistair, his family, and his advisors did not know of Wynne's other work, she remained in their good graces. The Fereldan throne and Ferelden in general kept a healthy distrust of the Chantry as a whole, given the events that had occurred years earlier.

Yet the Chantry, for the time being, was not concerned about Ferelden. Dorothea, who had risen to the office of the Divine and taken the ruling name of Justinia V, had summoned Leliana to investigate a brewing threat. The situation, as it appeared, threatened not only the Free Marches, but perhaps all of Thedas.

"Blights aside," said Justinia as she paced in her study—as a rule, Justinia did not pace, for it showed anxiety, and so Leliana was alarmed, "the situation in Kirkwall is the most dire threat to Thedas since the Qunari invasion. If the burning coals of the situation are not dampened, it will soon burst into a flame that no one will be able to stop. It will become worse for the mages, not better, no matter what we have tried to do and what we plan to do. These 'Resolutionists' threaten everyone. Not just mages, not just templars, not just the Chantry. If they continue their acts of terror, which have only been small, thus far, I will not be able to fix what is so broken in our beloved Chantry."

"What would you have me do, Most Holy?" asked Leliana.

"You are my left hand, child. Find out what these Resolutionists mean to do, and what they want. Will they always respond with escalations of violence no matter what the negotiation? Or are they willing to discuss matters like civilized people? If they will only act with violence in order to bring forth their changes, and we cannot find the leaders driving them, then the Chantry may have to march upon Kirkwall. If not, I fear for what the Resolutionists will do to the city and its inhabitants. Or what the city might do to its mages, if the threats against Grand Cleric Elthina's life are carried out."

"There have been threats to Her Grace?"

Justinia nodded. "It took me by surprise, as well, given how beloved Elthina is to her people. Yet, these Resolutionist mages may not view her neutrality as a desired trait. If you believe she is in true danger, please extend our protection to her."

"Is there anything else I can do?" Though the Resolutionists were the most physically threatening of Kirkwall's problems, they were not the only ones. There were multiple sides in the heated, tangled situation in the city-state.

"Yes." Justinia settled herself in the chair she kept next to the window overlooking the Grand Cathedral's courtyard. Telling Leliana of her mission seemed to have relieved her somewhat. "You know as well as I do that Elthina's neutrality has to do with the issues between Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino. While Meredith closes ranks and carries out harsher sanctions on the Circle in the Gallows, Orsino campaigns for relaxing those restrictions. Meanwhile, there are troubling reports of templar misbehavior and terrible treatment of the mages, and yet other reports of apostates and even Circle mages resorting to blood magic and turning into abominations. While it is easy to see a mage who has become an abomination, it is much harder to see what templars have become abominations with their behaviors. The templars can take care of the problematic maleficarum and abominations, but the magi cannot do anything with the irresponsible templars."

A frown briefly marring her face, Justinia stood and stepped over to her desk. As Leliana watched, the Divine opened a slim drawer and removed an envelope. Only after she'd handed it to Leliana did she speak again. "One templar there sent me a peculiar letter, outlining a peculiar—and horrific—so-called solution to the problem of what he perceives as uncontrollable mages. His solution is reprehensible, and I would like you to bring him my answer. While you are there, if you determine that he will not heed my telling him no, and to stop, then you will stop Ser Alrik by any means necessary."

"Yes, Most Holy. I will do as you ask."

"Then the Maker watch over you as you carry out His work."

Kirkwall astonished Leliana with its hidden darkness. In the Gallows, she found many abominable acts carried out not by abominations, but by templars, as Justinia had mentioned. She observed for days, searching out the source of the darkness. While Knight-Commander Meredith was on the far side of righteous, she still carried some of the Maker's light with her work. What was happening was darker, more frightening, and resulted in a larger number of Tranquil mages than should have been in a Circle of Kirkwall's size.

The source turned out to be the templar Justinia had sent Leliana to confront.

In the shadows of his modestly-sized room, Leliana waited for Alrik to return from his day's duty. Return he did, an hour after curfew, smelling of blood, with his face set in a very much self-satisfied way. Once he had shed his armor and placed it on his armor stand, Leliana revealed herself.

To his credit, he did not startle. "Who are you? What are you doing in my chambers?" His hand reached for the grip of his Sword of Mercy as he spoke.

Leliana leapt and knocked his hand away before his fingers could close on it. Then she twisted his arm behind his back and kicked him downward. Before he could get to his feet, Leliana had a dagger to his throat. "I am the left hand of the Divine. I believe you sent a letter to her some months ago."

"Yes! I did!" Alrik frowned at the dagger. "Is this a test of my fortitude? I assure you, my solution was sincere in how I presented it. The number of mages in the Free Marches has doubled in the past three years alone, and they're past controlling using any regular means. Tranquility for all would mean they would be pacified and peaceful, retain their usefulness, and do what they're told. We'll keep their souls from the Void and rescue them from their sins. Best of all, once they're Tranquil, they'll do anything you ask. Anything." His eyes drifted once more to the dagger that had yet to leave his throat, and then back up at Leliana. "Did Her Perfection give you an answer to my message?"

"She did."

His body was found the next day in Kirkwall's harbor, another victim of walking drunk near the docks. Drowning was not uncommon in Lowtown, either by accident or by design.

No one mourned his loss.

Leliana continued to watch Kirkwall's internal workings. Templar brutality had been momentarily dulled, but she well knew there would be another to take Alrik's place, in time. Meredith continued to issue increasingly draconian measures that were met with grumbles from reasonable templars, and many complaints from residents of Kirkwall's Circle. The complaints, for the most part, were valid. While the restrictions hadn't yet achieved the level of abuse, they were certainly the tightest restrictions on Thedas. Even mages of the White Spire in Val Royeaux had more freedoms. Just barely, but a little more.

In marketplaces, and in some less savory places in the city, Leliana caught rumors of apostate attacks on patrolling templars. Then she heard more rumors, of apostates attacking people they believed to be an agent of the Divine. Those unfortunate souls had been victims of Leliana's having started rumors of herself. The vague description meant the net the Resolutionists cast was too large, and caught too many innocents in its violent hold.

She could not find a leader. She searched from Hightown and even into Darktown, but all she found were apostates who helped others. There was the Darktown healer, there was the apostate protecting orphans in Lowtown, and another apostate who made potions and poultices for those who needed them. The work of the Resolutionists was everywhere one looked, but the Resolutionists themselves seemed exist nowhere, except in shadow.

The sole cure for Kirkwall's illness would be to clean it out entirely, before the violence spread from the city to the greater Free Marches, and from the Free Marches to the rest of Thedas. If the mages rebelled before Justinia had the chance to fix what had long been broken, the Chantry would shatter, the templars and Seekers along with it, and many countries would follow.

She heard enough talk of plots against Elthina, even as other Kirkwallers proclaimed their adoration for their Grand Cleric. In light, to most, Elthina was beloved to her flock. To others, to mages who felt she had not done enough to curb the likes of Alrik, or to keep Meredith from assuming the responsibilities of the viscountcy, Elthina was a threat who needed to be neutralized to bring about change.

Leliana visited Elthina herself, late in the night, as Elthina read in the chantry's vast library. Unlike with Alrik, Leliana allowed herself to be heard as she shut the door and approached the older woman sitting at a table.

"I had wondered how long it would take for Her Perfection to send one of hers to see me," Elthina said quietly, before she even looked up. She smiled softly at Leliana's raised eyebrow. "None of ours here walk quite the same way as an agent of the Divine. Perhaps Sebastian did, when he was here, but no longer." Elthina crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knees. "I take it you have been observing Kirkwall for some time?"

"I have, Your Grace."

"And you have found a city in peril?"

"Its people in peril, in the very least. I could not find the source of the violent unrest, yet how they chose to react to my presence condemns them, and it may condemn all of Kirkwall."

"So you could not find the leader of the Resolutionists?"

"No, Your Grace."

Elthina sighed: a soft, sad sound. "I had hoped you would. I wish to speak with them, to see what it is they would like us to do."

"They want freedom for all mages, at any cost. They have engaged in acts of terrorism and sabotage throughout Thedas, and will not stop until they have destroyed all that we know in the name of freedom. Unless mages are freed to rule themselves, they have declared that they will show every person in Thedas how little protection the Circle offers them."

"In some cases, they are right. Perhaps, sometimes, in Kirkwall's own Circle. I heard about Ser Alrik. Your work, I presume?"

"The Maker's work."

Elthina let out a huff of slight amusement; recognition of what Leliana had said and not said. Then she returned to serious matters regarding her role in the plight of the magi. "How can I work with them if they will not see me? Not speak with me?"

Leliana knelt in front of the Grand Cleric, taking her hands in her own. "Your Grace, they wish to see you dead. They believe you a wall impeding them from their mission. They will not barter with you. They will not deal. They will not beg. They will not ask. They will merely move you out of their way by sending you to the Maker's side. You must leave, Your Grace. There is safe refuge for you at the Grand Cathedral."

"I cannot leave my people, not now, of all times. No matter how justified the fear of what will come might be, it is no excuse to try saving my own neck by abandoning those whom it is my responsibility to shepherd. I will stay." Elthina removed her hands from Leliana's, and brushed her hand over Leliana's hair, as if comforting a child. "The Maker will watch over me. Do not fear, child. There is no greater devotion than to lay one's life at the Maker's feet. He will see me through this. He will see all of us through this."

"I will let the Divine know of your choice," Leliana said as she rose to her feet. "And I will pray for you."

"Pray for Kirkwall. Her people need Andraste's guidance far more than I."

The prayers would go unanswered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Happiness is fragile. Nothing can be built upon it that will last."

—_The Qun_, Canto Unknown

**Líadan**

The shout of dismay from Cáel came as no surprise to Líadan. Cáel had started in on teasing his sister before they'd even had their morning meal, and he'd not let up throughout the day. Coupled with the recent spate of unseasonably cold, heavy rains and the excessive mud churned up in the yards, which meant they spent more time cooped up indoors than running off energy outside, the two children had been in rather foul moods. Nuala had given up and kicked them out into the gardens, rain and mud be damned, and Líadan had been about to do just the same with them. Though the rain had lightened to a mist, the children would've remained undaunted even had it not.

Thus it wasn't unexpected when she heard the result of Ava finally losing her temper at her brother and retaliating not a short time later. Líadan, Revas loping by her side, rounded the corner to find Cáel on his backside in the mud, his dark blue eyes wide with a sort of surprise Líadan had never seen in him. As he tried to regain his footing, she noticed marks on his shoes that looked remarkably like scorch marks, if she hadn't known better. Near her brother, Ava's eyes were no less wide, and her own surprise was laced with a good amount of panic.

_No_.

A frisson of cold raced from Líadan's chest to her toes, taking with it the scant hope she'd carried since Ava had been born. It was too soon, too early, she was only _six_, and it shouldn't have happened at all, and she desperately wanted it to be a mistake, that there was another plausible explanation other that the frighteningly obvious. Líadan looked around, searching for witnesses who could reassure her that she'd mistakenly assumed the cause of the results in front of her. Kennard wasn't around, which wasn't unusual when the children were on palace grounds, given the Royal Guard's presence throughout. Nuala was there, standing near some of the shrubs with leaves the tired green of late summer. Her bias could be different, Líadan thought as she briefly looked away from her children and toward their nurse. Maybe she'd witnessed something else, an explanation that could erase Líadan's panic.

But Nuala's eyes were deeply troubled as she stared at the children. Feeling an alternate explanation slipping through her fingers, Líadan turned back to ask for answers. When she did, she found Ava helping her brother to his feet, Revas behind Ava to keep the girl from falling backwards, and Cáel doing everything he could to avoid eye contact with any of them. That, in of itself, was unusual, because he often defiantly maintained eye contact when challenged. It was one of the few quirks he'd inherited from his natural mother, Morrigan. Fortunately, it was held in balance by his Theirin inability to lie.

Líadan looked down to where his eyes were focused, only to discover he now had bare feet, his toes squirming in the cold mud. "Where are your shoes?"

He looked up quickly, the surprise gone from his eyes, and replaced by a feigned innocence. "Hm? What?"

"Shoes. You had them on a minute ago." Cáel had managed to lose several things over short course of his seven years of life, but he'd not yet lost a pair of shoes, and never anything so quickly.

"Did I?"

"Your toes would be frozen by now, otherwise." And he had to be getting colder by the second, considering his entire back was coated in frigid mud. If the situation hadn't been so dire due to what she might have just witnessed, she already would've sent him inside to change.

He glanced at his feet, as if assessing, and his rusty colored hair tumbled back over his forehead to cover his furrowed brow. "Probably."

"Probably." Líadan crossed her arms, readying for the interrogation her children were insisting upon if she ever wanted to uncover the truth. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"We fought."

"You don't say."

"I got mad and pushed him," said Ava, who never volunteered _anything_, and Líadan was starting to wonder if these were really her children.

"You aren't leaving anything out, are you?"

Ava closed her mouth, her light green eyes darting away. Cáel watched for a moment, and then faced their mother, his mouth set in the kind of determination he got when he and Ava closed ranks and covered for each other. It was behavior both heartwarming and infuriating. At the moment, it was more the last and less the first. "Well, you came over," said Cáel.

She would have to split them up and question them separately if she were to get real answers. It was the only way in situations like this, where their usually tumultuous sibling relationship gained a startling amount of camaraderie. And Revas wasn't helping at all, letting Ava cling to her without trying to get her to play, which only provided further evidence that something was amiss. "Creators, just—"

Shouts and the squelching pound of boots on sodden ground came from the other side of the garden. Líadan dropped the questioning of her wayward children, told them to get behind her, and then drew her sword as she peered through the line of shrubs. She cursed inwardly at not having her bow, but carrying it around the compound and palace wasn't practical. At least she had her sword, which served to channel the small amount of magic she had into something she could use to hit things, sometimes even with lightning through the blade.

_Magic_. There was too much of it around. Just last week, Teagan had expressed concerns about Rowan. And now… wasn't the time to think about it.

Revas kept her growls low as she wedged herself in between Líadan and the children. The shouting hadn't stopped, and she still couldn't make out what was being said. Either someone had gotten past the palace's defenses and were really noisy assassins, or someone had pulled a prank on a new guard. No matter which, she had no intention of being caught unprepared.

Nuala appeared beside her, her own dagger drawn and ready. "If anyone's come for them, they won't be leaving. Not with the both of us here to stop it."

Inwardly, Líadan smiled. In addition to being the children's nurse, Nuala was one of her closest friends, and cared for the children as if they were her own. She also wasn't a woman to be trifled with, for she knew how to properly wield the dagger she held. Her cousin, Rhian, also a Grey Warden, had trained her.

"Nan! I didn't even know you had a dagger!" said Ava.

"Be _quiet_," said Cáel. "You want to lead them right to us?"

"You don't even know if they're mean people."

"It isn't like Mamae draws her sword on nice people."

"I've seen her draw it on Papa, so—"

"We were _sparring_," said Líadan. "Now, hush, both of you." Of course the two of them couldn't decide to reign in their chattiness now instead of earlier, not with the father they had. But her concern had already started to abate as she recognized Kennard's voice amongst whoever was running their way. While sprinting guards didn't bode well, it meant there wasn't an immediate danger about to burst from the foliage.

Kennard even went around the shrubs instead of through them, which was another good sign. Immediate danger wouldn't warrant treating the gardens with delicacy. The bodyguard gave the children a reassuring smile, tight as it was, before he addressed Líadan. "There was an attack outside the compound," he said as he motioned with his hands for the royal guards with him to set a perimeter. "We aren't sure who the target was, and the Silver Order was still dealing with them when I left. What's strange is that it was a bunch of dwarves who were doing the attacking. Warden Oghren called them Carta. You ever hear a thing like that in Denerim?"

Líadan frowned. "In Orzammar or Kirkwall, maybe. Amaranthine, sometimes, but Hildur's presence curbs the Carta's own." She didn't mention that Hildur's idea of stopping the Carta had a lot to do with Hildur's propensity for conscripting the offending Carta thugs. It was remarkably effective, yet did fine work to illustrate that the Wardens would take anybody with the necessary skills. Former dusters, Hildur had explained, always had the abilities if they survived to adulthood. Sigrun had readily agreed, and Líadan's lone venture with Sigrun into Dust Town had reinforced it. "Either way, if it's the Carta, then I doubt they're after us."

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Kennard, you're paid to not take chances," said Nuala.

"And the Crown's gold buys a lot of vigilance." Then he inclined his head toward the two muddied children. "And the both of them warrant it, I'll grant you."

There was another commotion at the other end of the gardens, and shouts traded between guards as a new guard ran in their direction. Kennard had a surly look to give to the young Silver Order guard who trotted up behind him, possibly because the younger man had the audacity to not appear out of breath.

"Senior Warden, Guard-Lieutenant," said the young guard, "there was an attack outside the Warden compound when a group of Wardens left through the front door."

"We know," said Kennard. "Get on with it."

"We killed them quick, with no injuries to us or the Wardens. We assumed they were after the Prince, but the witnesses said they were talking about someone named Hawke. Warden-Commander Hildur said it was the Carta who'd attacked, and that they were after Warden Bethany, not Prince Malcolm." He took a breath, his sprint and the delivery of his report finally catching up with him. "The Warden-Commander sent me to tell Senior Warden Líadan that she wants to see her in the compound's library as soon as possible."

Líadan held back sigh, frustrated that duty meant not being able to deal with whatever had transpired between Cáel and Ava. Even in garrison, the Wardens demanded a great deal of attention. "Tell her I'll be there in a few minutes," she said to the guard, who thumped his chest in salute and ran off.

"Guard-Lieutenant?" Nuala said to Kennard, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"He's new." Kennard shrugged. "Gets all fancy with the actual titles. Soon enough, he'll just refer to everyone as 'ser.' Just has to get the whole 'working with the Wardens and the royal family' stars out of his eyes. He's a fine warrior, though. Makes the adjustment bearable."

"What about the new guards who aren't?"

"They get sent to Guard-Captain Kylon. He's got far more patience than anyone has a right to."

Though she recognized the humor in the comment, Líadan didn't feel it. She willed herself not to betray the worry she carried, and then turned to Nuala. "I'll need to go." Her children had to be safe with her. Nuala had been raised alongside an apostate and had kept her secret even from the Wardens until they actually met Rhian. The conscription that followed had nothing to do with the revelation to the Wardens, however. That was placed squarely at the Chantry's feet. "I don't know how long the meeting will be."

Nuala met Líadan's steady gaze with one of her own. "No need to worry. I've got them, like always." The understanding was unspoken, yet implicit in her eyes. Nothing would be discussed and no secrets would be revealed, at least not until Líadan had a chance to address it, herself.

She nodded to Nuala, and looked over at the children. "I'll be back later. Try not to track mud everywhere." Then she turned her look to Revas. "And you, don't encourage them. You're just as bad."

Revas barked, either in agreement, or possibly to relay her objection to the near-insult, and then ran circles around Cáel and Ava, who appeared to have the same measure of indignity.

Then Líadan headed for the compound, where she'd already spent most of her day. While she had agreed some time ago that for Cáel and Ava's combined safety and need for schooling they would live in the palace, she hadn't agreed to spend more time there than absolutely necessary. That life wasn't hers, not as a whole. Only a small piece of it was. When not with her children, the majority of her daytime hours were spent in the compound or on training exercises. Malcolm tried to do the same, but he often got pulled into the same meetings as Alistair, even though he was merely the King's brother, and not the King. But Sylaise forbid, if anything happened to Alistair, Malcolm would be a co-regent with Anora for Dane, until the heir apparent reached his majority. It meant that Malcolm had to know the same current information and future plans as Anora and Alistair did, and to voice his own agreement and disagreement on policies in the hopes of preventing any differences of opinion, should the worst happen.

He hated it, but understood the need and tolerated it. Only when merciless teasing came from the likes of Fergus and Teagan did he really let loose with his frustrations. It was understandable.

She caught up with Sigrun in the main hall, and together they went into the library. Malcolm and Bethany were already there, with Bethany seated and frowning, and Malcolm perusing the rows of books.

"I had no idea you were dealing with the Carta," Sigrun said to Bethany as she took a seat next to her.

Bethany's frown only deepened. "I'm not. Haven't. I never have. My sister, however, well. There's a strong possibility, but I don't know why they'd come after me. It's not like I'm any easier a target than she is."

"I didn't even know the Carta had a presence in Denerim." Malcolm abandoned his browsing and walked to where the others sat. "If they did, they were remarkably quiet about it. Well, had been, considering their attack in broad daylight, right in front of the compound. I think only an attack in the marketplace would've had more witnesses." He dropped into the space next to Líadan on the short sofa nominally used for reading, but normally used for naps by various Wardens. "First they thought they were after me, which sent Kennard sprinting for the palace. I bet he'll never agree to help train the Silver Order again."

"I still don't know why they'd want to kill me in the first place," said Bethany.

"They didn't want you dead," Hildur said as she walked into the room and quickly closed the door behind her. She had a scrap of paper in her hand that she showed the small group. "They had a note on them."

"Then why attack?" asked Bethany.

"They wanted your blood."

"You're really not making a lot of sense," said Líadan.

"No, probably not." Hildur tossed the paper onto the low table before climbing into a free chair. The way she settled back gave the appearance of ease, but the tightness around her eyes said otherwise. "The Grey Wardens have a secret prison. It's in a rift in the Vimmark Mountains, nowhere near any of the passes. It's sealed at several levels by the life essence and blood of an untainted mage. Anyone can go in, but nothing gets out, which is the intent. You go inside, and you're never seen again." Hildur looked directly at Bethany. "Remember how Stroud left you and Anders outside what he said was an abandoned Grey Warden fortress? It was the prison."

"So they knew they weren't going to come out?" asked Bethany.

"Mostly. They knew that someone had to check on the seals. If they had been weakened enough, they could have left, and then the process would start to find a new mage to help strengthen them. If they were still strong, they would've been trapped, and left to stand guard until they were killed."

Bethany shook her head slowly, her eyes on her fingers as they fidgeted. "Still doesn't make it better."

"Didn't say it did." Hildur offered her a slight smile to show her words weren't meant to be unkind.

"Why do the Wardens have a prison?" asked Malcolm.

Bethany held up one of her hands to stop him from continuing to talk, and her head snapped around to look at Hildur. "Wait. We haven't gotten the answer to the specific question of why the Carta wants my blood. You hinted at it, but you haven't said."

Hildur sighed, muttered something about Warden secrets and stupidity, and then answered, "The people who want to break the seals need your blood to do so, because the last mage to redo the seals was Malcolm Hawke."

"My father was a blood mage?"

As Hildur went on to explain the role Bethany's father had played in helping to seal the Warden prison and the Architect-like creature held there, Líadan gave them only part of her attention. She didn't particularly need the details about what the Wardens and Malcolm Hawke had done before she'd even been born. It was an explanation Bethany needed, certainly, given that Bethany still had problems with blood magic. Líadan wasn't bothered, not with having been raised to believe the danger with magic rested mostly with the mage, and not the source of power for the magic. It was one of the many differences between what the Chantry's Circle of Magi taught, and what Dalish Keepers taught their apprentices. Líadan could only hope that her daughter would learn the less restrictive way, somehow, if what she'd witnessed this morning had been what she assumed.

If it was, they were lucky enough that Dane hadn't been present and playing with his cousins when the incident occurred. While he'd been around enough mages growing up as to not be terribly bothered by them, he was horrible at keeping secrets. Without a second thought, he'd have ended up telling Alistair and Anora what he'd seen. Not out of spite or malice, but because he liked to talk. It would have quickly brought the problem to light, before Líadan even had a chance to determine if there _was_ a problem. She wondered how long it would take to convince herself that her daughter was fine, and they had nothing to worry about regarding her having the Gift. Either way, once she had a serious talk with each child, she'd have to tell Malcolm. She didn't look forward to it, and wanted to spare him the worry for as long as she could. He agonized over the potential for magic nearly as much as she did. While he couldn't truly feel the betrayal to the Dalish that would plague Líadan if the magic were there, he did share her fear of what would happen when it was discovered, because the Chantry would find out. When—not if—they did, they would insist Ava be remanded to their custody. They might even preemptively insist they take Cáel, as well, given his heritage. They'd already tried more than once, when he wasn't even a year old. If they found out his sister was a mage, they'd try it again.

But none of that would happen so long as Ava didn't have magic, and so Líadan continued to cling to the slim possibility. She could figure it out over the next couple of days, and then deal with whatever outcome she found.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention—Hildur had given Malcolm a small, leather-bound journal she'd taken from her pocket. Then Líadan realized she hadn't been paying the least amount of attention, because she had no idea why Hildur would be doing so.

"You'll all need to leave tomorrow," said Hildur.

Líadan stared, taken by surprise that they were being sent on a mission. She'd assumed it had been taken care of with the Carta having been killed, and that Wardens from the Free Marches could handle the issue with the seals at the prison. But Hildur was right. Others Wardens wouldn't have dealt with the Architect, and it would take too long to send messages to them, even if they had. So it had to be them, and it did everything to ramp up her anxiety over Ava. She wouldn't have time to sort things out, to protect her if anything had happened. Or if something _did_ happen while she and Malcolm were gone, what decisions would be made without them being present? What if she were dragged off by templars? If something happened in public and templars responded, nothing else could be done. When they returned, they would have to—she didn't know what she'd do if she found out the Chantry had taken her child, or Creators forbid, both of her children. She had to find a way to ensure their protection to make sure the worst didn't occur.

Hildur mistook Líadan's look as an objection. "It's unfortunate and sudden, I know, especially since you'll both need to go with Sigrun and Bethany. But, like I said, this ancient magister is much like the Architect, maybe even more powerful. Since it's Bethany's family, she's going. Sigrun's dealt with the Mother, and you and Malcolm have dealt with the Architect, so I need each of you to go." She pointed at the journal Malcolm was thumbing through, scratching various notations with a stick of graphite bought during one of their trips to Orzammar. "There's also a rogue Grey Warden you'll need to track down and deal with. Her name is Janeka, and she's apparently gained some sort of respect for Corypheus. I'm not sure why, but most Wardens who've been following her case on the order of the First Warden believe that Janeka spent far too much time studying the prison and Corypheus. She'd been commissioned to do so, but probably got drawn into whatever tricked the early Wardens into stupidly keeping Corypheus alive. Last thing we heard was that she was going to investigate inside the prison. A few people heard her mention that she was thinking of freeing him, which was the other thing Stroud was looking into. Given that the Carta who attacked have elements of the taint in them, and that they spoke of breaking the seals, she's probably directing them. The Wardens want her stopped."

"Tie her up and carry her out kind of stopped?" asked Malcolm.

"If you think you can accomplish stopping her without bloodshed, feel free to give it a try," said Hildur. "But I suspect you'll be out of luck." She stood from the chair, looking slightly less harried than she'd been when she came into the library. "I'm going to go arrange berths for all of you on a ship leaving port as early tomorrow morning as possible. I'll send a messenger around once I know the time and the ship. Now, go eat, go pack, make your farewells. You know, the usual. I think there should be food left downstairs, even though we talked through dinner."

Sigrun scowled. "Nug snugglers. That means the dregs." She slid a glance over at Malcolm. "How about you arranging something from the palace kitchens, instead? They probably haven't been wiped out by some forty-odd hungry Wardens."

He smiled and stood up, tucking the graphite stick into the pouch at his belt, and the journal along with it. "I suppose I could do that. Come on, then, before it's too late."

As they walked from the compound to the palace's kitchens, Malcolm gave Líadan more than one look of concern. With Bethany and Sigrun trailing behind them, he wouldn't outright ask her what was going on, but Líadan could tell he'd noticed her lack of attention during the meeting. Usually, it was Malcolm who let his mind wander, and not her, which meant the role reversal would bring questions. She'd have to figure out how to control her reactions better, to keep her thoughts from surfacing near those who could tell she was bothered by something. If he asked, she didn't want to lie—especially not to him—but she didn't want him burdened with this, not yet. One of them should have freedom from the worry, for as long as it was feasible. Or at the very least, until there were certain answers to be had.

It wasn't until they were on their way back to the wing of the palace where their rooms were—along with the children's, the nurses, the bodyguards, and Alistair and Anora, but Líadan refused to refer to it as the royal family's wing—did Malcolm ask.

"So, what's on your mind?"

She sighed, not having come up with a good answer. "Just… give me a few days, then I can talk about it."

"Not anything urgent, is it? You know, like ancient magisters about to be set free sort of thing?"

"Not urgent, no." She supposed that it wasn't urgent enough to make a fuss about not leaving for the mission, not so long as she could plan for any contingencies. Part of her looked forward to the mission. If she hadn't happened on the scene earlier that day, she would be reasonably happy about it. "Nothing that absolutely has to be discussed before we leave."

He grinned. "It'll be like an adventure! Sort of. I mean, darkspawn won't be fun, and neither will going into the Deep Roads. And Kirkwall isn't terribly pleasant, either. But I can't remember the last time we got to do more than a training run in the Deep Roads. Certainly not an extended trip, and definitely not both of us." A frown threatened his smile, and he scratched at his chin, and then frowned at the dark smudges the graphite had left on his fingers. "I hope Cáel and Ava won't be too bothered by our both being gone."

"They'll have Nuala to watch over them." _Nuala_. Líadan was fairly certain she could be absolutely trusted. The fact that she hadn't yet spoken about this afternoon to anyone was a good sign. "She'll watch over them."

"I know, but… I don't know. I feel a little guilty, because I'm looking forward to not having them along. Having actual time to be an adult doing adult Warden things, without having to worry about facing two unruly kids the next day."

"They aren't unruly."

"They are when it's just after dawn, if only because they tend to be _awake_. No idea where they got that from, because it's neither of us."

She laughed, recalling her mother's consternation at her father for loving the early morning. "My father insisted on getting up just before dawn. He claimed to love the peacefulness."

"I bet he only claimed that because it meant he wouldn't hear a certain little girl chattering away."

"I never chattered." She bumped into him to help make her point. "That's you, Alistair, and Dane."

"Maker's _breath_, can that boy talk. You'd think he got it from both sides, but Loghain was as laconic as they come, and Anora isn't much better, not with folks who aren't family or friends. At least Callum seems to have mastered the Mac Tir economy of speech. He's pretty quiet for a four-year-old, compared to Dane at that age. I still say Alistair should've been punished with a second son as chatty as the first for what he did with the name. 'No, I totally didn't name him after you, except I did, and you hate it and it's awesome that you do.'" Once he was done imitating his brother, he scowled. "Which reminds me, I should probably tell Alistair that we're leaving. Aw, I'll miss the meetings in the morning. Such a loss." He let go of pretending to be sad and raised his eyebrows at her. "See you later? I'll help with the packing after I talk to Alistair. Since they'll be up, I can say goodbye to Cáel and Ava in the morning."

She nodded. "That's fine."

He took a step away, and then stopped to look at her. "You're sure you don't want to talk about whatever it is before we go?"

"I'm sure." Líadan gave him as reassuring a smile as she could, but knew it wasn't enough. "It can wait."

His look was dubious, but he didn't press further. "If you say so."

"However…you've got marks on your face." She walked the short distance to him, reached up, and tried to rub away the smudge his fingers had left on his chin. "And they don't seem to be going anywhere." Really, she'd only succeeded in making it worse.

"I think it makes me look scholarly." Then he reached out with his still-smudged thumb and brushed it over the _vallaslin_ on her forehead. "Oh, messed up your tattoo, but I think it suits you." Before she could even think about retaliating, he kissed her, and then ran off to find his elder brother.

Frustrating as Malcolm could be, she had to admit he was good at making her feel better, even when he didn't know specifically what was bothering her. Spirits lifted just enough to feel slightly optimistic, she went to search for Nuala.

Líadan found her in the sitting room attached to the nurse's own room. It often doubled as a playroom of sorts, with Cáel and Ava constantly underfoot, along with Dane and Callum almost as much. Only after the children had gone to bed did Nuala find any peace. Often, Líadan believed Nuala had the harder task when she had charge of the children so much. Killing darkspawn seemed to take far less energy than keeping safe four children who were too energetic and curious for their own good.

The door had been left unbarred, and she'd only knocked once when Nuala told her to come in. Líadan practically crept inside, still struggling with the matter of trust. It wasn't that she didn't trust Nuala—she absolutely did, every day, in entrusting her with the lives of her children. But given what they might have witnessed earlier, they were verging on a different sort of trust altogether.

"I was wondering when you'd come to talk," Nuala said quietly. "The business with the Wardens took a while, didn't it?"

"It did. There's—we're being sent to Kirkwall for a couple weeks."

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Nuala's brows drew together. "Bit fast, isn't it? Then again, that's what usually happens. Whole lot of boring, and then you lot are sent off to save Thedas, I suppose. Then you come back and it's all dull and boring afterward." She put down the mending she'd been doing and gave Líadan a steady look. "Not this time, though."

"No." Líadan had to resist looking between Nuala and the door, almost panicky at the thought of Nuala's loyalty not extending as far as she knew, or as far as she hoped.

Nuala leaned forward, forearms on the tops of her legs, her gaze never wavering. "What if neither of you come back?"

To be fair, it was something Líadan thought about every time she and Malcolm were sent out together on forays in the Deep Roads. While it wasn't a particularly dangerous or arduous exercise to a group of Grey Wardens, it wasn't without its danger. Anything could happen in the Deep Roads, including losing most or all of a group. There were plans in the event that the worst happened. Nuala would stay on, as would Kennard, and they'd both go to Highever with the children, where Fergus and his wife would look after them. For Fergus to take them had been the plan for as long as they'd had to make such plans. His wife had been added a couple years before, but she was no less capable and just as trusted.

Things had changed, and the plans no longer suited, not with Ava's new—maybe it wasn't that, but the trouble Líadan had with breathing steadily proved her heart believed otherwise. She hadn't felt this disconcerted since she'd found out she would be having her daughter, and now she didn't have a Keeper to speak to. She didn't even have Wynne, who was off on some sort of trip for the Circle. Of course, Nuala was here, but it wasn't fair to place her in a position where she would have to choose between loyalties. However, there was a chance that Nuala had already chosen, and hadn't yet told anyone.

"Your loyalty," Líadan said, thinking the question ridiculous even as she asked it, yet feeling that it _had_ to be asked, "is it to the children or the Crown?"

"I think you know the answer by now."

She had a hard time maintaining eye contact with Nuala, partly because she felt awful at questioning her loyalty at all, and partly because she was afraid of the answer. "I think I do, but I need to hear it."

Nuala let out an exasperated sigh as she half-rolled her eyes. "The children, you daft woman. Of course it's the children. And you and Malcolm, if there are any other ridiculous doubts rattling around in that head of yours."

Relief passed through her body with one fear of many having been allayed. She nodded at Nuala, and gave her a wan smile. "Sorry, I just—this is different. More than life and death."

"I know. What's more, I understand."

Líadan nodded. Nuala did, she knew. Her cousin had been an apostate hidden by the family for several years. "I had to be sure. I'm scrambling, trying to figure out what—I just don't know." Then she did, every safe harbor rolling to the forefront of her mind. "If we don't come back, you'll have to bring them to the Vigil, to Hildur. After that, it's likely they and you will have to go travel more. They'll eventually have to go to the Dalish, either Lanaya's clan or my grandfather's." She mulled over how that could even be done. "Possibly the Mahariel if the others can't be found."

"Your grandfather would take them in? Even with how he is about the elf-blooded?"

"If anything, his desire not to cross _Asha'belannar_ will compel him to agree. And if I'm gone, he'll probably also feel compelled to keep my children safe, especially from the Chantry." She pursed her lips. "Mostly from the Chantry. I'd honestly rather Lanaya, though. Her clan would be more accommodating to them. While Emrys' clan wouldn't wish them harm, I'm fairly certain it would be a cold reception and upbringing. Lanaya's clan would be more like a family." An ache had settled in her chest, at having to discuss these things, to discuss what would be done for her children if she were permanently gone. They would be out of her hands, beyond her ability to care for them and protect them, and they were so young.

It helped that Nuala could be so matter-of-fact with the details of how things would get done. "How would I get them there? Hildur, I take it?"

"She would have enough resources to help you, and she wouldn't be bound by Chantry laws like anyone else here. I don't want to take the chance that anyone will feel obligated—or forced—to send Ava to the Circle."

There was a pause, and then Nuala asked, "So you believe you saw it?"

She didn't want to. There was still enough time for denial. "I don't know. But if I'm not around, and neither is Malcolm, I'm not taking any chances."

"And if you do come back? What will you do?

"Pray to the Creators that it was a trick of the eye, and nothing more."

Nuala sat up, looking entirely unconvinced. Líadan didn't feel convinced, either, but it was all she had. Then Nuala nodded, as if she understood, and glanced in the direction of Ava's room. "I know you probably don't want to wake her up, but—"

"I should talk to her," said Líadan. It was a conversation she'd never wanted to have. "And I'll speak with Cáel, too." She wouldn't leave it to Nuala. While her friend and the children's nurse was more than capable, it wasn't her responsibility. It wasn't her magic Líadan's child might have inherited.

"If you're sure."

A rueful laugh bubbled up Líadan's throat, and she barely kept it in. "This is the sort of thing where you can never be sure, but it has to be done." Her mind focused on what she would say, it wasn't until her hand was on the door latch that she said, "Thank you."

"It's a privilege," said Nuala. "I thank them. Usually. When they aren't muddy."

Another burden lifted, Líadan was able to share in a soft laugh. Then she stole to the next door down, where her daughter slept. Except when she went inside, though it was quiet, Ava wasn't asleep. It was another sign that something was wrong, because Ava almost always slept well. Cáel tended to overthink things at times, and when he was troubled or stymied by a particular puzzle, his mind would keep mulling it over until it was solved, and then he'd sleep. Ava, however, tended to be able to set things aside, get a good night's sleep, and then tackle her troubles when fresh. Yet here Ava was, acting like her brother, awake when she should have been asleep. Her finger idly twirled in one of the curls of her light auburn hair, something she only did when anxious. Given what had happened, it would've been more worrisome if she wasn't anxious, but it still pained Líadan to see her daughter like this.

Ava stayed seated, leaning against her headboard, quilts piled on her lap, as Líadan approached the bed. When Líadan ran a hand through Ava's hair, the girl moved over, a clear invitation for her mother to sit. Líadan didn't decline, and as soon as she was leaning against the headboard herself, Ava leaned against her.

"I can't talk about it," said Ava.

"That's all right," said Líadan. "It isn't something we have the time for right now. Whatever happened, it would take a lot of talking to figure out."

Ava shifted to look up at Líadan. "How come we don't have time?"

"Commander Hildur is sending your father and I to Kirkwall tomorrow morning."

"Does it have to do with the people who tried to hurt Wardens?"

"Very much."

Ava nodded. "All right." Then she picked at the edge of her quilt, working free one of the stray threads. "What should… what should I do, while you and Papa are gone?"

Líadan pulled her closer, wishing she could take the quaver out of her daughter's voice. "I'm not saying there's been magic done, but _should_ there have been, it should _not_ be done at all while we're gone, especially not in front of anyone, especially not templars, or even your uncle Alistair. Pretty much everyone, really. I'm not saying you have, or that you can, and you don't have to tell me right now, but if you _can_, don't. It isn't safe. Whatever's going on, hold onto it until we get back. Then we can figure everything out."

Ava leaned more heavily against her, and when she spoke, her words were heavy with sleepiness. "Can we?"

"I think so."

Another nod, and then Ava was asleep, the quilt sliding from her slack hands, the same as the problem that had briefly stolen her sleep. Líadan slipped out of the bed, put Ava down so that she wasn't in a weird position, and covered her up with the quilt. Then she kissed her on the forehead, hoping it wouldn't be the last time, and wished that she could feel the confidence in herself that Ava had in her.

In her other child's room, Cáel was awake like she'd expected. He'd forgone his bed and opted for the chair next to the window that overlooked the courtyard. When Líadan stepped inside and closed the door, he briefly looked her way, but returned his gaze to the window.

His pointed question wasn't the one she'd expected. "What's a Tranquil?"

The intrusion of such a barbaric thing put a sudden lurch in her step as she struggled for an answer that wouldn't do him a disservice. "What makes you ask?"

"I met one today. He was with one of the new court healers. The healer would only tell me that they'd taken away his magic. But he wasn't… there was something missing, not just the magic. I know lots of people who don't have magic, like me or like Papa, and we aren't like that man was. It's like he was empty."

"Because he is." In something as important, as dire as this, she couldn't afford to be anything less than honest, even though he'd learned about the Tranquil today, of all days. "When the Chantry takes magic away from a mage, it takes away their ability to feel things, on the inside. They aren't who they were, and never will be again. If you take away a mage's magic, everything they are goes with it."

Cáel had turned to face her as she explained, a mixture of disgust and astonishment in his eyes. "Why would they do that?"

"A lot of reasons, none of them good. Your uncle would be able to explain it better."

"Do the Dalish do that to any of their mages?"

"No. Never." It was another reason why Ava would be safe with the Dalish if she had magic. The Dalish would never rip someone's very being away from them, just for the crime of being a mage. The Gift was never taken. "I didn't even know it could be done until after I joined the Wardens."

None of her answers seemed to suit him, and he remained unsettled and returned to gazing out the window. But finding out about Tranquility, no matter what one's age, was an unsettling thing. Especially when it was on a day when one found out that their only sister might be a mage. "About today—"

Cáel crossed his arms and pulled them tight to his chest, but his defensiveness couldn't cover his unusual behavior. "I'm not telling." Not present was the usual note of defiance that accompanied statements like that from him. That told her more than anything he could have said out loud.

"You don't need to tell me anything right now. What I need you to do is watch over your sister, and not tease her. If what I think happened today did happen, you'll both need to make sure it doesn't happen again, at least until your father and I get back."

"You're leaving?"

"A mission for the Wardens."

Her answer finally drew his attention away from the window and the troubles he'd been contending with in his mind. "It has to do with the attack on the compound, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

He took this in, his eyes drifting to look upward as he figured out just how much was being asked of him. Then he looked at Líadan again. "How long will you be gone?" This time, there was a faint tremor in his voice, relaying his fear about them not being there if anything went wrong.

"A couple weeks." Said out loud to her troubled child, it sounded like forever, and from the brief look of despondence that passed through Cáel's eyes, it was the same to him. Líadan held on to whatever strength she had inside to resist the urge to stay and deal with everything right then. But if she insisted on staying, there would be questions as to why, and they would be prying questions, and everything would come out before she had a good solution. "If anything happens with your sister, you go to Nuala, and nobody else. I'm serious. Not any of your cousins, not either of your uncles, not either of your aunts, not even any of the Wardens until you've told Nuala first. She'll protect you like your father and I would, and she's the only person I know that for certain."

Cáel nodded, more somber than any seven-year-old had a right to be. "All right."

"Good. Now, into bed, young man. If you want to brood, you can brood there, and maybe fall asleep. Because if you fall asleep in that chair, you'll wake up with an awful crick in your neck, and none of the healers will be around to help you."

He scowled, but stood up and gave her a crooked smile. Then he surprised her by giving her a hug, clinging to her like he only did when he woke from a particularly terrifying nightmare. The moment passed, and with newfound strength, he got into his bed and settled in. She knew he was somewhat back to himself when he half-heartedly tried to swat her hand away from smoothing out his hair, and barely tolerated a kiss to his forehead. There was no dignity in that, he'd once told his parents. He couldn't help it that he needed them when he was hurt or scared—oddly, he could admit that much—but if he was fine, he didn't need it.

Líadan started to leave, and she'd just touched the door when Cáel asked, "Mamae, would they make you Tranquil, even though you don't really use your magic?"

"No. The Chantry has no power over Grey Wardens."

"Good. I wouldn't want to see you like that man was."

"Neither would I." When she left, Cáel was already drifting off, but she was unsettled, as if his concerns had been given over to her.

Her mabari waited for her outside the door. Líadan crouched and held Revas' head in her hands, giving her ears a good rub. Then she looked directly into the mabari's caring and understanding eyes. "I'm going to be gone, and so is Malcolm. I need you to stay here and watch over the children."

Revas growled, her objection clear.

Líadan smiled tiredly at her before becoming serious again. "I'm not saying you didn't before. I know you guard them and care for them like you would your own pups, and they love you for it. But this is different. Remember how Gunnar died?"

Revas whined.

"I know. I miss him, too. But do you remember the templars who hurt him?"

Revas growled with true menace, nothing similar to the playful growl she'd given earlier.

"Exactly. If templars come for Ava, I need you to keep them away from her, and away from Cáel. Bring them to Nuala, if you can. I trust her."

Revas gave her a quiet, confident bark. Then she trotted over to Ava's door and nosed at it. Líadan let her in, sighing as she closed the door. This was a terrible time to be leaving for a mission, but she wasn't left with much choice. To stay would immediately draw attention to what might have happened, and to not go meant risking an ancient magister going free. But everything in her that wasn't a Grey Warden wanted to stay to fix things, to convince herself she'd imagined what she'd seen. And though Nuala was a very good person to talk to, she had no direct experience using magic. And she wasn't Dalish, raised among a people who believed magic a Gift when a child manifested it.

However, she did have a clanmate left to speak with: Merrill. She was in Kirkwall, and even if she didn't have any workable advice to offer, she could at least be reassuring. Merrill was very good at that, while Líadan was emphatically not. If anyone could find hope in a situation that appeared to have none, Merrill could. Perhaps the trip to Kirkwall was necessary, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: It doesn't apply to this particular chapter, but trigger warnings can be found on my author profile listed by story and chapter. I will keep them updated as the story goes forward. I currently warn for character death and consent issues, but if any readers need warnings for anything else, just let me know—no explanation needed—and I'll accommodate. Also, a thank you for LeliMor29 for the betas! (Which are still ongoing!) Thanks for reading, everyone._

**Chapter 3**

"The creature can speak. It has a name, Corypheus. We have encountered darkspawn before who use words, but none individual enough to have chosen a name. This Corypheus appears unique among darkspawn, and has gathered many of its brethren to follow it.

It would be wasteful to kill such a creature. If it can be captured, tamed somehow, its unnatural influence over the darkspawn could perhaps be turned to our favor. It is clear the darkspawn will never bow to human commands, but this Corypheus seems at times more human than beast. I have conversed with it, and though its thoughts are disordered and inhuman, it speaks of the Old Gods by their Tevinter names. I have wondered if perhaps he is no darkspawn at all, but a ghoul, so corrupted by the taint as to have become a new creature entirely.

I recommend we find a way to capture Corypheus, hold it somewhere safe from both men and darkspawn, and study its unique nature. This will require magic, however, for Corypheus's own abilities are powerful. It uses spells both human and tainted, and has a strength that would shame any magister. We must muster our best mages to face it and to hold it."

—_from Warden-Commander Farele to the First Warden in Weisshaupt, 1004 TE_

**Malcolm**

"Why did we agree to come with you, again?" Malcolm asked Bethany. Because now that they were on a ferry from the Gallows to Lowtown, with sights on Hightown and the Amell estate, he remembered how much Kirkwall bothered him. It made him itch under his skin, uncomfortable and wrong, yet too vague to track down.

"Because Hildur told us to, that's why," said Líadan.

"Oh, right. Orders." More like orders and then some, Malcolm thought. They'd barely had time to make farewells and assure Cáel and Ava that both their parents would be returning before they'd been ushered onto a ship. It hadn't helped that there had been some sort of anxiety within his children that wasn't normally there. He'd attributed it to them never having had both their parents gone for so long, but it still bothered him.

"You know, someone—more than a few someones—did try to kidnap me," said Bethany. "You could have some sympathy." It wasn't like Bethany had let them forget that she'd been attacked, either. She hadn't been in danger, not really. People who picked fights with Grey Wardens or the Silver Order tended to lose horribly.

He couldn't say that, though. Well, he could, but it would make him more of an ass than Carver, and he preferred letting Bethany's twin brother keep that particular honor. "I do have sympathy, I promise," he said out loud. "It's just that it's crazy at your sister's place and I just remembered."

Bethany huffed. "Ava was born here, you know."

"I realize. Please don't remind me." After all, Ava was Fereldan, and it was just a strange happenstance that she'd been misfortunate enough to be born within Kirkwall's city walls.

But Bethany wasn't going to let it go, because she never did. "Because my sister and her friends helped you."

When Malcolm heard Líadan quietly laughing behind her hand, he decided he was going on the offensive before the two of them ganged up on him, as they often had during their short trip. "They're my friends, too. Well, Anders is. And Merrill. And I think that Varric fellow is everyone's friend."

"He is," said Bethany. "Took him a while to warm up to Sebastian, though."

"Only the Maker's grace lets anyone warm up to Sebastian."

"Merrill thinks he's nice," said Líadan.

"Yeah, but she also thinks he's daft, and coming from Merrill, that's saying something."

Líadan landed a solid blow to his side. The brigandine did surprisingly little to protect a person from the sharp elbow of an irritated spouse. As Malcolm made a show of rubbing where he'd been hit, Líadan said, "Merrill isn't daft."

"I don't know, there have been times I've wondered," said Bethany.

"Keep up like that and I'll go right back home and not help you at all, Hildur yelling at me when we get back or not. I grew up with Merrill. I assure you, she's not daft." Líadan paused and looked to be thinking it over. "A little odd, I'll admit."

"Do you think she should come with us?" asked Malcolm. While it was hard to picture Merrill in the Deep Roads, he had to admit that her magic would be great to have in their corner down there.

"Maybe," said Bethany. "She might not want to go, though. Marian's last letters have mentioned that Merrill's been holing up in her place in the Alienage, working on that mirror of hers."

Líadan growled. "She should have thrown it into the Waking Sea years ago."

"Which was why I hadn't mentioned it before now," said Bethany. "You know, because you get particularly grumpy when it's brought up. I'm not sure if anyone's told you, but you can be a bit frightening when cranky."

The ferry rowed alongside one of Lowtown's piers, which was a welcome opportunity for Malcolm to change the perilous subject. "Oh, look! We're here," he said, purposefully making his tone sound more cheerful than he felt. Without looking back to see if they followed, he headed for the dock. There were a lot of stairs to climb, and the mid-morning sun was already hot in Kirkwall. That, and he really didn't want Líadan to start in on the eluvian. She'd be too tempted to march down to the Alienage and try to give Merrill what-for again, and that hadn't gone well the past couple of times she'd done it.

"I can't wait to meet these people," Sigrun said as she hopped onto the dock. "They sound exciting."

"That's one word for it," said Bethany. "Come on. Let's go see my family so we can tell them of the impending danger they're in. Not that they aren't in Kirkwall, which means they're always in danger."

Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell, gave the small party a warm welcome. Marian was out, but would be returning at any time, and she would send for Carver. "If the Knight-Commander will let him go," she said as she and Bodahn hustled the group inside. "She's been quite restrictive lately about how much the templars are given leave from their duties at the Gallows. We see him so little it's almost like he's a mage of the Circle." Once everyone had settled in and Leandra had sent Bodahn to fetch refreshments, she seated herself in an overstuffed chair before her friendly look turned serious. "I take it you're here because of the attacks on Marian and Carver?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. One could easily forget that Leandra Hawke had once been married to an apostate and spent half her life on the run and reading every detail she could from every situation, because anyone could be a threat to the apostates in her family. Leandra hadn't lost her ability to notice the smallest detail. "Bethany, too," he said.

She nodded. "And it has to do with the Wardens and their prison in the Vimmarks, doesn't it?"

He frowned. "Did Hildur sent you a letter or something? Because she hadn't let on that you knew anything about it."

"I certainly didn't," said Bethany.

"The task your father did for the Wardens enabled us to leave Kirkwall and settle in Ferelden." Leandra sat back, but hardly looked relaxed. "Beyond saying where he'd been and who he'd been working for, your father refused to say anything else about it. He—" The clatter of the front door opening and closing, followed by laughter and chatter, cut short Leandra's explanation. "That must be Marian," she said as she stood up.

With Marian trotted in her overenthusiastic mabari, Guto, who remembered everyone he'd met before and greeted them with slobbery exuberance. Sebastian trailed slightly behind Marian and Guto, and crowding behind him were Varric and Fenris. "Bethany!" Marian shouted, and then flung her arms outward before wrapping her younger sister up in a hug. Though his smile was honest, Sebastian's greetings were more reserved, and did not involve the happy hugs that Marian insisted on giving everyone, Sigrun included.

"Sunshine!" said Varric. "Princeling! Princess! Good to see you!"

"Varric, I'm not a princess," said Líadan. "We've talked about this."

He grinned. "In _my_ story, they made you a princess, Princess."

Líadan rolled her eyes and looked over at Sebastian. "Could you please set him straight?"

"I gladly would, but it would be an exercise in futility. I would advise you to ignore it the best you can, as I have."

"I'll remember that, Choir Boy," Varric said to Sebastian, and then turned to the Wardens again. "What brings you to our lovely quagmire of a city?"

"Warden things," said Malcolm. "They happen to also relate to the attack on Bethany, which Leandra tells me also happened to Marian and Carver."

Marian shook her head. "The Carta should have known better. It isn't like they're really going to be able to get anyone successfully out of the Gallows, especially when they're very-not-secretly attacking a templar. Then coming for me? Honestly, I'd thought my problems with them were long over. I leave them alone, they leave me alone, and I don't have to kill any of them. Until a few days ago. Now it's game on, I say."

"Good to see you're a true champion of peace, sister," said Bethany.

"Peace is boring. Also less bloody, as a rule, but still boring."

Sebastian sighed. "Andraste help you, Marian."

She threw a bright smile in his direction. "She does! You say so all the time." As Sebastian shook his head in resignation, Marian turned her attention to the Wardens in the room. "I take it you'll want to speak with the others, as well? Because wherever you're going, I'm coming with you. They attacked me in my home, they attacked my baby brother and sister, and so I'm going to see for myself they will never do so again."

"That takes care of the asking," said Líadan. "We'll need other volunteers to go with us, though. We aren't going into the Deep Roads, but it's close enough, and there will still be darkspawn. Any non-Wardens need to be volunteers. Anders, however, won't get a choice."

"I've already sent for Carver," said Leandra.

Marian looked over at Varric. "Varric?"

He grinned. "Give me a few minutes and I'll have everyone on their way." Then he hurried out the door, presumably to find some of his many messengers.

Slowly, the rest of Marian's friends and family joined them at the estate. Anders was first, given he happened to be the closest due to the route through the estate's cellars. As soon as he saw the other Wardens, he heaved a huge sigh. "You lot are going to make me go to the Deep Roads again, aren't you?" he asked.

"Hello, Anders, nice to see you again, too. How are you doing? Is the clinic going well? I'm doing all right, thanks for not bothering to say hello before you started complaining." Líadan finished off her statement with a glare that was only partly playful. Mostly not, such was her clear irritation with him.

Anders at least had the decency to look somewhat sheepish, but even that didn't change his attitude. "Are you dragging me to the Deep Roads or not?"

Well, that certainly wasn't the Anders he'd seen last time he was here, Malcolm thought. "We'd prefer it if you walked. Packs and weapons are enough a pain in the ass as it is," said Malcolm. "And technically, we aren't going into the Deep Roads. Well, unless we take a wrong turn."

"Because you've never done that. Remember when we ran into the Architect? Wrong turn." It sounded much more like the Anders he'd known for years, but as Malcolm hadn't missed the flash of blue in Anders' eyes, and judging by Líadan's suspicious frown, she hadn't missed it either.

Malcolm sighed. "That was Oghren's fault. Not mine. We flipped a coin. He won the toss, and that's why we went left. I think it was left."

"It was left," said Líadan.

"Why the debate and the flipping of coins? I thought Grey Wardens had maps," Marian said from where she'd flopped into a chair. Then she rolled her eyes as the door slammed and Carver's grumbling voice could be heard.

"Only sometimes." Sigrun shot a questioning look in the direction of the entryway, but went on. "Usually not. Legion's got plenty of maps, but the Deep Roads change all the time with the darkspawn tunneling, so even those are only moderately helpful. Way's been cleared from Orzammar to Kal-Sharok, but the darkspawn still hold pretty much the rest of the Deep Roads. No point in serious mapping till they're gone."

"One day, we'll take the Deep Roads." Carver stomped through the doorway and into the room, jaw jutting out in pride. "Do what the Wardens can't seem to get done."

Bethany sighed and glanced between the other Wardens in the room. "One of you want to punch him, or should I?"

"We're limited to one?" asked Líadan.

Bethany tilted her head, thinking it over. "For now. We might need his brawn against some Carta or darkspawn."

"You know," Marian said, "I think his brawn might be his only good attribute."

"You should have more charity, Marian." Sebastian nodded at Carver, and then turned to Marian. "Follow Andraste's example and find the good in every person."

"I did. He's a big lout. Good for deflecting people who want to hit a delicate flower of a mage, but not much else."

"I love you too, sister," said Carver.

Again, Sebastian took measure of Carver. "Your brother is quite loyal."

"Did you forget he's a templar?" asked Bethany. "I thought the Sword of Mercy on his breastplate was a dead giveaway."

"You know what? I'm just going to go back to the Gallows if this is how you lot are going to treat me when I visit." With that, Carver turned on his heel and headed for the front of the estate.

"Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!" Marian called behind him.

"Marian!" said Leandra. "That's enough, both of you. Carver, come back in here. This business with the Wardens has to do with all three of you, not just your sisters."

Malcolm barely resisted smiling at another reminder of Teyrna Eleanor Cousland. Leandra gave as good as she got, just like his own mother had, adeptly wrangling three willful adult children. While Teyrna Eleanor had only dealt with two hot-headed, stubborn children, her approach had been much the same. Personally, Malcolm had enough trouble managing his two small ones. He had no idea what he'd do when they were older. They were difficult enough as it was.

"With brothers," said Varric as he walked back into the room, "the best you can hope for are those few times when they aren't insufferable. As for our friends, what you see is what you get. Aveline's busy rounding up a couple of her guards who partook of a little too much wine at the Rose, Rivaini's on a run of hers to Rialto, and Daisy is still shut in at her place, probably staring into that sorry excuse for a mirror of hers. Maker, we're lucky if we can get her to eat lately." He turned to Líadan, a slightly hopeful glint in his eyes. "Think you could get her to come around? You've known her the longest."

"Probably not. She's more stubborn than I am." Líadan seemed slightly perturbed, and even more hurt that Merrill hadn't bothered with coming up for a visit. It wasn't often she had the chance to come to Kirkwall, Malcolm knew, and every other time, the two Dalish had made it a point to see each other.

"And your obdurate nature is part of legend, Princess, so maybe we'll just have to keep slipping Daisy some food to see that she eats and call it a day." Varric sat in the empty seat Marian motioned to. "So what have the Hawkes to do with Warden adventuring? I mean, aside from their predilection for descending into the Deep Roads more than disgraced nobles."

"Their father." Leandra had become uncharacteristically subdued, her voice tinged with sadness. "Thirty years ago, he was approached by the Grey Wardens for a task they promised would pay well. They also offered him leverage with my father, so that I could leave Kirkwall with Malcolm uncontested. All they needed, they said, was a strong mage who was untainted with Warden training to reinforce a few magical seals in a Warden prison. Once he was done, they promised never to bother him again. He agreed. He was gone for nearly a week, and when he returned, all he said was that in addition to the ancient rune they'd given him to use to strengthen the seals, he'd had to use his blood. He was angry about it—angrier than I'd ever seen him at that point in our lives—and never said one way or another if he meant blood magic or something else. I never asked. The Wardens told him to keep the rune, calling it a key, and said it had to stay out of Warden hands, for safekeeping. We never heard from the Wardens again."

"What's it to do with us?" asked Carver. "We're not Father, obviously."

"Even the best magic fades, brother. The magic currently holding the seals together is laced with our blood. It's part of how the seals are strengthened." Bethany, to her credit, did not so much as glare at her brother.

"They need our blood? They can get stuffed if they want my blood to do their dirty blood magic."

"You can get stuffed and let them finish their explanation before you storm off to sulk," said Marian.

Varric ignored the bickering as he focused on the details of the job. "How would that even work? The whole mechanism is clear as mud."

"It wouldn't," said Malcolm. He still barely understood it, and believed it a flimsy method that really shouldn't have worked for as long as it had. "I know because I asked Hildur the same question. It isn't like you can guarantee that whatever mage you coerced into strengthening the seals would have children who could re-do the seal. Turns out that if you want to strengthen them, you need the rune, and the mage who uses it also incorporates their blood into whatever ritual they use. If you want to break the seals, that's when you need the blood of the mage who sealed it, or the blood of his kin. Someone wants to free what's in there, and that's why they attacked the Hawkes."

"I will ask what no one else has the courage to," said Fenris. "What is contained in this prison?"

"A darkspawn who's around a thousand years old," said Malcolm. "The Wardens think he's an ancient Tevinter magister, twisted into an abomination on a level we've never seen ourselves. Possibly—_possibly_, because the Wardens won't say one way or another—one of the magisters who tainted the Golden City."

"It should have been destroyed. Allowing it to survive all this time was folly."

Varric grinned at the declaration. "Never change, Broody." Then he turned to Malcolm. "I still need help understanding. So the Grey Wardens of old believed this thing they imprisoned needed an absurd amount of security to keep it locked up. Why are we breaking those seals? Shouldn't we be trying to fix them? You know, to keep it locked up?"

Líadan let out a huff. "Because there's a stupid Warden leading a party of other stupid Wardens who think they can control the very not-stupid darkspawn kept there."

"Oh!" Marian leaned forward in earnestness. "Oh! Oh, wait. Let me guess. You disapprove, don't you? I couldn't tell from your tone."

"I think the lack of Daisy's presence during one of her few visits to Kirkwall has made her cranky," said Varric. "Stupid Wardens might be a close second."

Malcolm sighed, already tired of that particular part of the mission. Hunting darkspawn was what Wardens were for, not for hunting down other Wardens. None of them had any believable illusions that they wouldn't have to kill them. He wanted to believe they wouldn't, and would keep insisting up until they had no choice. "We have to break the seals to catch up to the other Wardens quick enough."

"So you can kill them?"

"Yes," said Líadan.

At the same time, Malcolm said, "We might not have to—"

"No, you'll probably have to," said Marian. "Wardens are a special kind of intractable. Works well against darkspawn, not so well when dealing with other folk." She looked over at her mother. "Do you know where the rune is? Gathering dust in a box somewhere? Added to a stave he never used again? We're really screwed if it got left in Lothering."

As if the weight of her memories held her down, Leandra stood up slowly. "I believe I do. There was a stave your father had used quite often before his trip. He even took it with him. Afterward, he put it away and never used it again, even though it was his favorite."

Marian stared Leandra. "Are you talking about the one you insisted on bringing when we fled? The one I didn't like because it has a naked woman carved on the top?"

"Wait, really?" asked Malcolm.

"No word of a lie," said Marian. "Naked as the day the Maker made her, whoever she is."

"I never wanted to know," said Carver.

Bethany winced. "Please don't tell me it's Mother."

"For the Maker's sake, you three, it's Andraste, the Maker's bride. Your father was quite good at wood carving."

"So, Carver was named after his dad's favorite hobby?" asked Sigrun.

Even though they'd barely met, Carver shot her a dark look, to which Sigrun only smirked. Served him right for making those comments about Grey Wardens, Malcolm thought, and figured Sigrun believed the same.

Leandra fetched the stave, which really did have a remarkably well done sculpture of a woman on the top. Malcolm took the journal Hildur had given him, and compared the rune in the stave to the sketch in the book. It was a match. He wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad about it, and when he told the others, they seemed to feel the same.

Except for Marian.

She was already up and bouncing on her feet. "When do we leave? We could go now. It isn't even suppertime yet. We could be halfway there by nightfall. Or at least partway. Closer than we are now."

"You haven't even asked how we're supposed to get there," said Varric.

Marian turned an expectant look on the Wardens. "Well?"

"Not the Deep Roads, as we've said," said Líadan. "Hildur told us about a route that cuts through the Vimmark Mountains instead of going underground. Because of increasing numbers of darkspawn in the years since the Blight, it's quicker to travel on the surface. We think it should take two or three days to get there, depending on if we run into anyone on the way."

"Plan on it," said Varric. "I don't think Hawke is capable of going anywhere without running across resistance. I can be ready by sunrise."

"As can I," said Fenris.

The others said much the same, and then quickly returned to their homes to rest and prepare. Though Malcolm, Líadan, and Sigrun had planned on taking rooms at an inn, both Marian and Leandra asked that they stay at the estate, which still had more rooms than it did occupants, and neither of them liked seeing them go unused. Leandra also insisted on feeding anyone who would stay for dinner.

"All right, but I'm bringing them for drinks and Diamondback at the Hanged Man afterward," said Varric.

Marian raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you had things to do."

"I do. But I'm not going to turn down a free meal, or the chance to divest another prince of his coin." When Malcolm scowled, Varric added, "I'll even let you and Princess play as a team."

"If you want me to play Diamondback, you'd better not pair me with him," said Líadan. "I don't like losing, and he'll lose."

"Way to point out my shortcomings to potential adversaries," said Malcolm.

"Princeling, I had you pegged before you even knew I was going to suggest Diamondback." Varric inclined his head toward Sigrun. "You, however, don't seem to be an easy mark."

She smiled. "I tend to be the one doing the marking."

In the end, Malcolm did lose, though Líadan managed to win back most of the coin he'd surrendered. Fenris had proven surprisingly good at the game, and even more surprisingly, pleasant company. Malcolm still wasn't keen on the smell of the Hanged Man, nor the quality of the ale, but the atmosphere was comfortable to him. He couldn't be entirely relaxed, not with a tavern full of questionable figures, drunk longshoremen, and possessing the constant potential of breaking out in a bar-wide fight at any moment. The abundance of Fereldan accents did help. While Marchers didn't speak like Orlesians, they didn't speak like people from home, either. Between the dirt, the chance of a fight, and the dry, cutting remarks flying between card players, Malcolm felt remarkably content. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd attempted to play cards, and then ended up waiting as Líadan wiped the floor with their opponents after he'd been dealt out.

At the palace, there was always one thing or another that kept them from spending this sort of time together. Even when they did manage to scrape together time enough to go out like this, the next morning loomed over them, and with said morning came two completely energized children who had no forgiveness for an adult who might have had a little too much ale the night before. When it came to going out, drinking, and playing cards like other adults of their age, or staying in and sleeping, sleep often won out.

Especially if there was to be a meeting with advisers in the morning. _Especially_ when Alistair was there, because he had even less mercy for hangovers than Cáel and Ava. Alistair had never had a hangover, not once, and Malcolm felt it a cosmic injustice. Coupled with Alistair waking early and liking it so much that he was cheerful, Malcolm made an effort to not even contemplate drinking with Oghren the night before, lest he be driven to commit fratricide the next morning. The royal guards were well aware, and generally gave him the side-eye as he walked into early morning meetings. He couldn't blame them.

"Oh, his eyes do get shiny when he's buzzed," he heard Varric say.

"I told you," said Líadan. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he loses on purpose so he can just relax and drink a bit, but I've seen him play in earnest. Same result."

"At least he's a happy drunk. Not tearful, overly touchy, or keen for a fight."

"Not drunk," said Malcolm. "Really. Relaxed and comfortable, yes, but not drunk. I can walk, think mostly clearly, and probably still defend myself if there's a fight on the way back to Hightown."

"Considering most Grey Wardens could destroy common thugs in their sleep, I'm not sure how much a measure of sobriety that last part is." Varric's eyes flicked over to Fenris, and then back to Malcolm and Líadan. "You should probably go with someone to Hightown, though. Not because I think you'll get into any trouble, but because you'd get lost otherwise. Kirkwall isn't exactly intuitive when it comes to getting around."

Fenris nodded. "I must go to Hightown, as well. I will go with you." He half-smiled at Varric as he stood. "And my debt to you is down by three sovereigns. I told you I was good for it."

"Still have another two to go, Broody. Besides, who knows when you'll have another change at fleecing a prince?"

"You're horrible," said Malcolm.

What none of them missed was the look passed between Fenris and Sigrun. Malcolm had thought he'd heard the two of them discussing Isabela. It seemed Fenris had some sort of arrangement with Isabela, and since Sigrun had the same sort of arrangement, they were of the same mind. At least that was what Malcolm seemed to divine from what they'd openly chatted about.

"Rivaini will be jealous," said Varric.

"Only that she missed out on joining in," said Fenris.

Varric grinned. "She might be here when we get back."

"Then we'll have to arrange to stay another night," Sigrun said to Malcolm.

He groaned. "Yes, because that's _exactly_ the sort of thing we're here for, and Hildur won't question at all why we stayed any extra time."

"Only for gossip. Oh, and to make you squirm." Sigrun grinned at him, and then headed for the door.

Lowtown at night, the same as the daytime, was filled with a suspicious haze mixed with the fog rolling off the harbor. Through air laced with smoke from the smelters, Malcolm thought he could smell the sea. That's what he told himself it was. The hazy fog diminished as they went up the steps to Hightown, leaving a hot, clear night in the upper reaches of the city—certainly not the rainy summer they'd left behind in Ferelden. When they were done with the stairs and on level ground, Malcolm slung his arm around Líadan's shoulders and pulled her close as they walked. Fenris bid them farewell at the Amell estate's doorstep before he headed for his own place, Sigrun following him without a word to the others.

Malcolm watched them go. "Isabela really will be sad that she couldn't join in."

"She'll make up for it when everyone gets back. We'll probably hear it from here."

"Maybe I'm more tipsy than I thought. I should have seen that one coming." He grimaced. "Or not seen or even imagine, because—"

Líadan faced him, smiled, reached up, and cupped his cheeks in her very warm hands. "How about you imagine other things?"

"Oh, I could do that." He did. And then he wasn't imagining once they got to their room, and morning arrived far too soon.

Orana had already set breakfast out by the time they were dressed, packed, and stumbling down the stairs—all right, he was doing the stumbling, Malcolm admitted, while Líadan still moved with a hunter's grace, even while half-asleep. Marian and Bethany were already eating, and to Malcolm's surprise, Sebastian was already there, too. Maker, what time had _he_ gotten up? Had it been anyone else, he'd have assumed the person in question had spent the night, but this was Sebastian, the same man who insisted on living like a Chantry brother even though he'd been released from his vows. Since he was Chantry, it must've been that he shared the same happy habit of rising early, like Alistair, the former templar.

Sodding Chantry. No person ever should be this happy this early. The Maker-damned sun wasn't even up yet.

Marian's glares at Sebastian's cheerful chatter communicated that she felt the same as Malcolm. Meanwhile, he was happy to have another ally in the fight against rising early.

The meal was eaten quickly, the others arriving in ones and twos: Fenris and Sigrun first, both of them looking insufferably pleased, to which Marian rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath about Isabela's influence; then Anders, stone-faced and not sharing even a hint of a smile with Sigrun, though he'd always done so years ago, with the Fereldan Wardens; Varric, who melted the iciness of grumpy not-morning people with his stories; last was Carver, who brought an altogether different sort of grumpy with him. But that was Carver, Bethany insisted. He'd never change.

"We could lose him in the Planasene," Marian said a little too brightly for the time of day. "Mother might mind, but I think everyone else would be all right with it."

"Andraste implored us to love our sisters and brothers," Sebastian said without even looking up from his food.

"I know! I'll love him more when he's lost in the woods and no longer my problem."

Malcolm was beginning to see that it was almost a game between Sebastian and Marian. He'd lament over or comment on her behavior, and she took it as encouragement, twisted it, and flung it right back at him. And so Sebastian kept commenting in an attempt to rise to the challenge Marian presented. The undertone of caring, possibly love, was certainly there, and absent was actual scolding. Which was good, Malcolm thought, because he had a feeling that Marian would take exception to that, as would her family.

"Oh, stuff your problems," Carver said to Marian, already tromping for the door. "I'll be outside waiting. If no one comes out after five minutes, I'm going back to the Gallows."

"Ten," Varric called after him. "Need to grab our gear, and some of us have short legs."

"Not a minute more!" Then the door slammed.

Leandra sighed. As the others grabbed packs and weapons, she waited in the entryway. "Do be careful," she said as they left, one by one. "And please don't lose your brother, or yourselves, either accidentally or on purpose."

"Fine," said Marian, "but this makes me your favorite child, being as benevolent as I am with not throwing him to the darkspawn, or the Carta, or the scary trees."

"Maker guide your steps, all of you." Leandra closed the door to the estate, and the group headed for Lowtown, the sun rising from behind the horizon to watch their progress.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"I was wrong. We cannot control the creature Corypheus. Even our most powerful mages hold no influence with him. In truth, it is they who have been most vulnerable.

A dozen times, those assigned to guard or study the creature have sought the key to free him. When they are removed to a safe distance, they remember little. They speak of a voice in their minds, a calling like that of the Old Gods, but it wanes outside Corypheus's presence.

Darkspawn have attacked as well, seeking him. I can only assume they are summoned the same way. Somehow, his magic lets him speak through the blight itself, affecting any who bear its taint.

This same power stays the hand of any Warden who approaches to kill him. I must recommend that we seal this prison over and conceal its very existence. Corypheus must not be allowed to go free."

—_from Warden-Commander Daneken to the First Warden in Weisshaupt, 1014 TE_

**Líadan**

Their group started for the Vimmarks as the sun tinged the horizon pink. Horses weren't brought, because they wouldn't have a safe place to keep them once they got to the prison, which meant they were on foot for the entire trip. Líadan and Sebastian traded off scouting ahead in the area immediately outside Kirkwall, where they were most likely to encounter bandits. None were found, or the bandits who were around were smart enough to leave Wardens alone. By and large, most of Thedas knew that attempting to rob a Grey Warden—especially a group with significant numbers of them—tended to result in a grisly death.

Líadan emerged from the tree line that hugged close to the trail through the Planasene. At the questioning looks from the others, she shook her head. "Nothing but game," she said. "We should be fine without scouting, I think. I didn't see signs of anyone passing through recently."

"It would be wise to scout again before we set camp for the night," said Sebastian.

"Of course it would." Líadan paused, wanting to say more, but managed to hold it in as she fell into step next to Malcolm. "I'll set a false trail or two if he pulls that again," she whispered to him. "Trying to tell a Dalish hunter how and when to scout! Let _him_ go on a wild sylvan chase and return with nothing but dirt on his boots to show for it."

Fenris chuckled from behind them, his elven ears letting only him overhear.

"How old are you again?" Malcolm whispered back to her.

"Not so old that I'll let the likes of him get away with insinuating that I don't know what I'm doing."

"Stamp your foot when you say that and you'll be just like Ava."

For that, she elbowed him in the ribs. It only made him laugh and draw her closer as they walked. She didn't mind. The ability to use her hunting skills in a forest as ancient and deep as the Planasene put her in a better mood than she would have guessed. She hadn't been able to truly do this for years, and she hadn't quite understood how much she missed it until she was able to do it again. Creators, she needed to get out into the forest more often.

While she did miss her children, and she knew Malcolm did, too, there was a certain freedom in not being immediately responsible for them for the next week, at the very least. It was a momentary reprieve from the drudgery of daily duties. While the impending battles with the Carta and darkspawn were certainly a downside, they hadn't yet overrode the feeling of freedom. Though, that freedom never escaped the tinge of worry, considering the situation waiting at home.

Malcolm, apparently also enjoying the countryside, took in a deep breath of air, which earned him a sneezing fit from the dust the others ahead of them had kicked up.

"You know," Anders said once Malcolm's sneezing had stopped, "I'm surprised the Warden Commander assigned both of you to go on a mission together. Where are your children?"

Líadan frowned at Anders' back as Malcolm did the same from beside her. It hadn't been an innocent inquiry, not with the judgmental tone behind it—far different from the tone Sebastian took when he spoke words that would normally sound judgmental, but rarely were. It was odd that Anders had become more insufferable and stuffy than a man of the Chantry. And to imagine, Anders used to be lighthearted and possess an actual sense of humor.

"At the palace with their nurse, also their bodyguard and my mabari, not to mention the Royal Guard and the City Guard," said Líadan. "They're fine. Hildur had to send us both because of the peculiar circumstances of the mission." For the time being, she ignored Anders' unspoken condemnation, and smiled instead. "I miss them, but this has been kind of fun. I know they're well cared for and protected, and I get to do things I haven't been able to do since before we had them." Maybe if she said it out loud enough, she'd be able to set aside the worry. It had yet to work.

"You haven't done much Wardening?" asked Varric.

She shrugged. "Some. Missions here and there, training newer Wardens, brief trips into the Deep Roads to keep sharp. But nothing this involved, not since before Ava was born."

Varric had slowed in order to walk beside them. "Same thing for you, Princeling? I've noticed you seem to be in great spirits as we trudge through the woods. Meanwhile, it makes this city boy wish for home."

Malcolm grumbled. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" asked Marian, who sounded far too amused for it to be an innocent question. "What've you been doing?"

"They've been making me do prince things."

"Prince things?"

"Helping my brother out, sitting in on meetings, occasionally being asked for input, learning everything Alistair knows. 'Just in case,' Anora told me, and Alistair agreed. Why? Because my brother is a jerk, that's why. He named _me_ as Dane's co-regent with Anora if anything happens to him."

"That would be standard for any monarchy," said Sebastian. "I'm not sure why you are surprised by it."

Líadan glanced back and saw Sebastian's brow furrowed, as if he were truly confused about why Malcolm complained. It didn't help her perception of him, since this prince had insinuated that she didn't entirely know what she was doing in the forest. If he couldn't see why Malcolm would be unhappy with the duties he'd had in Denerim, then Sebastian had been too long in the nobility, and not enough time spent outside the court, such as scouting in a forest.

While she hadn't been in too many forests lately, not of the Planasene's size, she had at least done scouting in the Deep Roads. Visits to Cadash thaig had been nice, as had been seeing Shale.

"Not surprised," Malcolm said with resigned sigh. "Displeased. I don't want the throne anymore than Alistair did. While I technically wouldn't _be_ on the throne, I'd be doing everything but. Hence doing prince things when I'd rather be doing Warden things."

Varric gave him a nod. "Spoken like a true younger brother. Better killing Thedas' unsavory than it is running the company or country your elder sibling has to."

"Exactly. Glad you see my point, Varric. Now, if you could convince Alistair's advisors of the same, I could be left in peace."

"My tongue can work miracles, Princeling, but that is beyond my ability."

"Maker!" said Carver. "Did you have to put it that way?"

"Junior, that was the least offensive way I had of phrasing it. Want to hear the other versions?"

"No!" Then Carver actually covered his ears and hummed to himself.

"And you implied that _I_ was behaving like a child," Líadan said to Malcolm.

"Changed my mind. In comparison, you're the picture of adulthood."

Once the day started to close in on evening, they all had to venture into the forest to find a suitable place to set up camp for the night. Being near a source of water was ideal, as was being out of sight of the main trail. Líadan decided that she'd hunt right after they picked a site, because fresh meat was far preferable to dried, and they may as well conserve dry rations for when they needed them. Since it would be near dusk by the time they'd gotten camp settled, it didn't make sense to let the chance for game pass by. There were signs of both deer and hares, but she preferred taking a decent number of hares over a deer for a night's camp. It helped that Planasene hares tended to run on the large side, a fact she'd learned from other Dalish hunters.

When she announced her plans to the group after they'd taken off their packs, Sebastian spoke up in favor of them. "I would like to accompany you on your hunt. It isn't something one gets to do in Kirkwall, and I rather enjoyed it in Starkhaven."

She stared at him. There was a certain amount of civility that needed to be maintained while their group traveled together and fought at each other's sides for an extended period of time. Therefore, she couldn't say what first popped into her head. Nor could she say the second or third or probably the fourth.

Marian said it for her. "Do you really think that if you go with a Dalish hunter on an actual hunt that you won't be in the way?"

Due respect to him, Sebastian took Marian's criticism seriously. He fell silent and rubbed at his chin while he glanced out into the trees. Then when he chose to speak, it was to Líadan. "Could I be of any use to you on a hunt? Or is Marian right?"

It was Líadan's turn to contemplate the forest. Rarely did Dalish hunters go out on their own. Pairs were normal, but parties of up to four hunters worked well. If they were hunting for hares, half could flush them out while the other half took their shots. Sometimes, they brought deerhounds for flushing out birds or hares, but hunting partners worked just as well. As long as Sebastian could move silently in the forest and remain still when told, she could use him like she would a new apprentice. Plus, it would be quicker if someone did the flushing and the other did the shooting. She finally turned to look at Sebastian. "I suppose I could find something for you to do. But the first time you make a sound, I'm sending you back."

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Thank you. Let me get my bow and string it and I will be yours to guide."

To Líadan's surprise, Sebastian didn't start any mindless chatter as they hunted. He kept quiet and held still when she signaled for him to. The only time he spoke was to ask what they were targeting.

"A deer would be too large, I gather?" he asked as they started out.

"Most. There are roe deer in the Planasene, so one of those would be all right. Hares would be quicker, though, and less prone to waste."

"I agree. I take it I will be chasing them from the underbrush, as we don't have any hunting dogs with us?"

"Hope it isn't work below a prince, because you're doing exactly that, which is a hunting apprentice's job."

"I think any human would be the equivalent of an apprentice when compared to a Dalish hunter. Marian was not wrong in her assessment."

Líadan was starting to see how Sebastian could have been the charming rake his sister insisted he'd been before he'd entered the Chantry. Creators, he was still charming now, having said exactly the thing that would placate her annoyance at him asking to come along. She didn't reply out loud. Instead, she gave him a slight smile, shook her head, and kept walking. Sebastian did exactly as he was told, and in the end, they returned carrying four braces of hares. They would have settled for less, but with the number of Grey Wardens in the party, it seemed wise to take extra when the opportunity arose. Sebastian had even impressed Líadan when he'd started to field dress the hares once they'd decided they had enough. More impressive was that he did the job well.

Their triumphant return to camp was greeted with cheers—if subdued in order to not draw attention to their presence. As they all ate their fill of the roasted meat, plus cheese, apples, and bread brought from Kirkwall, Líadan glanced around the camp that'd been set up in her absence. They were short a tent, and her first thought went to Sigrun. Maybe she and Fenris had elected to share for the time being, but Sigrun tended to focus on the job when they were on a mission. That meant no tent sharing for her. Líadan frowned. Maybe someone had forgotten theirs.

"What?" Malcolm asked from next to her. "You've got that furrow you get between your eyes when you're trying to figure out a puzzle."

"There aren't enough tents."

He blinked. "I hadn't even thought to count."

Varric chuckled. "There are exactly as many tents as needed."

"Who's sleeping under the stars, then?" asked Sigrun. "Because I'm not. I have enough trouble with the sky during the daytime. I need a reasonable roof over my head if I'm going to sleep."

"There's something Hawke and Choir Boy aren't telling you," said Varric.

Carver rolled his eyes. "If they went through that chaste marriage bullshit, I'm not interested."

"Well, I am," said Bethany, who then threw a curious look in Marian's direction. "Sister? Care to explain?"

Marian gave a heavy sigh, which Líadan took to mean that it _was_ the chaste marriage that she'd spoken of ages ago, and not a fully shared one. Though, if they were sharing a tent—and that also explained how Sebastian had already been at the Amell estate when they'd woken up—and a bed, it was a testament of will that their marriage remained chaste. There was temptation, and there was _temptation_, and sharing a bed would pretty much be the tipping point for her. It often was. Marian's will had to be extraordinary, since Líadan knew that the chaste part was largely Sebastian's choice, much to Marian's lament.

"We decided it was prudent," said Marian. She managed to make prudent sound like a swear, like Oghren did to duty.

"Once I had made my decision to fully leave the Chantry—with Grand Cleric Elthina's blessing—I needed a place to live. Marian offered her estate, but if I were to be taken seriously by the citizens of Starkhaven, I needed to not in the least resemble the young man I had once been. It meant not living with Marian while not married in the eyes of the Maker and Andraste. So, we had a small ceremony with the Grand Cleric for our chaste marriage, and will have a larger ceremony once we retake Starkhaven."

"Sister! That's wonderful!" Bethany gave a little shout, bolted from her seat on the ground, and practically tackled her sister with a joyful hug.

Meanwhile, Carver groaned and glared at Sebastian.

Marian smiled, but while it was mostly enthusiastic, it was missing some of its usual cheer. "We're going to Starkhaven after we've sorted out this kidnapping problem." She put her arm around Bethany, who'd remained at her sister's side. "Not a long visit. Just long enough to figure out the nuances and logistics of changing the rule."

"Seems a remarkably easy plan you have for taking back a principality that has a seated ruler, even if the ruler is a pretender," said Malcolm. "I recall regaining the throne for Alistair required a lot of fighting."

"Wasn't it mostly done through the Landsmeet?" asked Bethany.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Where do you think most of the fighting was?"

"So you mean you fought with words, and not real fighting," said Carver.

Varric outright laughed. "Junior, when it comes to the Fereldan Landsmeet, even I know that sword or fistfights or both are the usual. It's only a remarkable Landsmeet if there isn't. He's talking about actual fighting."

"With Andraste's guidance, we should not face the same in Starkhaven," said Sebastian. "Goran has already written me to ask how he could hand the rule over to Meghan or myself."

"And you don't think it's a trap?" asked Malcolm. "Because that says trap. Written all over it. I mean, I know you're idealistic, Sebastian, but Marian tends toward practical, because it keeps you from being dead."

"I had my people check it out after the offer. It's apparently genuine," said Varric. When Malcolm didn't look convinced, Varric held up his hands. "I know! I was as surprised as you, Princeling."

Marian stretched her legs toward the camp fire, presumably to warm her toes. "I'm trying to get Mother to agree to moving. Hopefully she'll join us in Starkhaven once everything is settled. Kirkwall is a mess and will only get messier, and I don't particularly want to stick around for it to fall down around my ears. The Qunari were enough of that for me, thank you. But every time I ask Mother, she goes into the whole, 'I'm an Amell, of the Kirkwall Amells, and I won't leave Kirkwall again,' routine." Marian pantomimed her mother, even imitating her voice as she retold what Leandra had said. "For what reasons, I don't know. I mean, she left the city for Father. Carver, you could get a transfer." She frowned. "Maybe."

"Don't get your hopes up about that." Carver said nothing further as his scowled deepened.

"All right, probably not." Marian sighed.

"Why couldn't you?" Bethany asked Carver. "Templars are transferred all the time."

Carver lifted his head from its contemplation of the dead leaves underfoot to meet his twin sister's gaze. "Knight-Commander Meredith is… I don't know. She's been strict, even for her, which is saying something. Knight-Captain Cullen does what he can to mitigate the worst of it, but since she's treading right on the line for legal interpretation of Chantry law, his hands are tied. I can't tell you how many mages he's just barely saved from being made immorally—maybe even illegally—Tranquil. It's only supposed to be for unharrowed mages or actual, uncontrollable threats, not really anyone else. But the Knight-Commander wields it like a parent would a switch. There have been some no one's been able to stop, but she's silenced the uproar with outlining how those people were threats, yet didn't deserve death."

"Tranquility is worse than death," said Marian.

"I know!" Carver's reply was sharp enough to approach shouting. "I know," he said in a more normal tone of voice. "I keep thinking about leaving, but I'm trying to do what I can from the inside. The Knight-Captain has been doing the same thing, and we're trying to work together. But it isn't like anything I thought it would be, and not even like anything it was after I first joined. And, Maker, the tension between the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter Orsino."

"Oh?" asked Varric.

Carver shot him a look of distaste. "Not like one of your serials. I'm surprised that she hasn't gutted him, or he hasn't lit her on fire yet. If things keep going like they are, it'll happen. So, I wish I could leave my post in Kirkwall, but I don't think I'll be allowed."

"I, for one," said Marian, "will be happy to get out of Kirkwall. I just wish Mother would do the same."

"She will be in good company," said Sebastian. "Grand Cleric Elthina is also refusing to leave. After death threats were directed her way, she mentioned she was offered safe haven by the Divine, but she turned it down."

Líadan frowned. "Grand Clerics leave their posts often? My impression was that they lived as long as possible and then some, all while clinging to their offices while others don't bother to strip it away. Well, if your Divines are anything to go by."

"You know, I do believe you have some latent bitterness directed toward the Chantry." Marian held up her hand and illustrated with a tiny gap between her thumb and forefinger. "Just a little."

She mostly tolerated its presence, so long as it didn't interfere with her life. It was enough. "It's less than it was."

"What, you mean like someone took a tiny bucket out of your whole sea of bitterness?" asked Malcolm.

For that, Líadan shoved him off the dead log, sending him onto his back behind it, where he just laughed to himself.

"How are you even still alive, much less married to the same woman?" asked Marian.

Instead of getting up, Malcolm remained on his back while resting his feet on the log he'd previously been sitting on. "Charisma."

"Líadan, you must have the patience of Andraste," said Sebastian.

"Am I the only one who sees something wrong with that comparison?" asked Varric.

Malcolm rose, dusted himself off, and cautiously retook his seat. "Which one of the Creators has the most patience, do you think?"

Honestly, had it not been asked in this particular context, Líadan had to admit it was a good question. "I don't know. I can tell you which ones don't have it. Mythal, for instance. Or Elgar'nan. Or Fen'Harel. June, possibly, since crafting can take patience and diligence. Oh, you know what? Has to be Sylaise. She's the one who insists everyone keep the peace amongst themselves, even when asses like you decide to tease their bondmate."

The smile Malcolm directed at her when he briefly traced her _vallaslin_ was one reason why she remained with him—she wasn't sure she could silence what she felt when she saw what lived behind that smile. "Wouldn't Andruil be the patient one? Hunters have to be patient when stalking their prey. You've said so more than once. So there you go. That's how you keep resisting the urge to kill me, because you're devoted to Andruil."

And that was another reason why she stayed with him—aside from the fact that she loved him—because he did his best to understand her culture and where she'd come from. For as much work as she did to understand humans, he did an equal amount trying to understand the Dalish. Sometimes, like he just had, he demonstrated the understanding he'd gained. However, admitting such a thing with an audience listening in, especially when one person present told stories like anyone else breathed air, wasn't something she was willing to do. "Mostly, I think I resist the urge because Cáel and Ava seem awfully attached to you."

He rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course. I totally believe you."

Then Marian turned the conversation serious with the question of keeping watches over night. Even though they hadn't run into any trouble during the day, they all agreed that keeping a watch was a necessity. Pairs, so that the danger of falling asleep was mitigated somewhat, and not pairs who were together, because though they were professionals, there could always be a lapse in judgement.

Líadan ended up on midwatch with Anders. Anders and Justice, she supposed. It was disheartening to witness her friend slipping away, losing him in parts and pieces like a clan elder falling prey to the fog that sometimes took their minds before their bodies stopped working. Each time she'd been to Kirkwall for a few brief visits with Merrill—though she'd stopped a few years ago, when Kirkwall became too dangerous for unaccompanied mages—there had been less and less of Anders left. Like with the elders, it was difficult to figure out what to talk about, the gaps in their memory easy holes to catch a foot in while trying to reach the person they'd been for so long. Too many times, it ended with both parties upset, and neither able to place a solid finger on why.

The first part of their shared watch went by quietly. Líadan sat with her back to the banked embers of the fire in order to preserve her night vision, which was already leagues better than a human's was. Anders sat on the other side of the log, facing the fire while scribbling away in a journal. Half the watch passed before either of them spoke. Though Líadan was fully alert, the suddenness of hearing a voice—even a familiar one—nearly made her jump.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?" asked Anders. "That Merrill chose to keep working on her mirror instead of coming to see you."

"It bothers me that she's working on it at all, and you know that. Why even bring it up?"

"I was just thinking that I'm glad we didn't bring Merrill."

If she hadn't been preserving her night vision, she'd have turned to glare at him for being ridiculous. Creators, Justice was an ass. He seemed to want to save Merrill from herself and blood mage ways, and yet at the same time, Justice disliked her for being a blood mage. Anders, in turn, did care about Merrill and her well-being, unlike Justice. "Why wouldn't you want her along? If you think her feverish dedication to the eluvian would distract me, it wouldn't. Especially since she'd be away from the eluvian, which is my goal. So that brings us back to me not knowing why you wouldn't want her along."

A couple more scratches of his quill were heard before he said, "I would be uncomfortable."

Obviously it was Justice. Líadan didn't want to keep watch with Justice; she wanted her friend. She decided to treat Justice like Anders in the hopes that it would chase the uptight spirit away. "Uncomfortable? Do you like her or something?"

"No! Of course I don't like her."

"How could you not like her? She takes care of Ser Pounce while living in an alienage. From what I've been told, that's actually fairly hard to do." The stories Nuala, Rhian, and Shianni had told her _still_ made her shudder.

"She's a blood mage."

Definitely Justice. "While that's true, I don't think that had anything to do with taking care of Ser Pounce."

"That isn't what I meant." Anders' tone became snippy, even as he stepped over the log to sit next to her. "She might be fine right now, but that could change at any moment, simply because she is a blood mage."

"Is she possessed? An abomination?" Which, truly, was an absurd conversation to be having with a man currently hosting a spirit in his own body. She could even see the tinge of blue glow under his skin again.

"Not yet. It's just a matter of time."

"The same could be said for any mage. Well, any somewhat powerful mage. I don't count."

For a moment, Anders didn't say anything. Líadan slid a quick glance over to see him looking like he felt compelled by good manners to disagree. Then he let out a small sigh, and with it, the blue glow winked out. "No, you really don't. Justice… he says he doesn't see any demons after you. Or near you. Or that care about you anymore than they'd care about a non-mage. He can barely see your connection to the Fade, for that matter. The sloth demon was an aberration, and the pride demon was only trying to show up the sloth demon to prove it could accomplish what the lesser demon couldn't."

"Told you I wasn't a good one." She didn't bother with hiding the smugness at being right.

"You're good when you augment another mage's ability, but otherwise, it's mostly parlor tricks unless the connection entirely opens up. Which has happened how many times?"

"Twice, I think." Anders' expression asked for elaboration. "Both times, family was threatened or killed, or I was threatened."

"That could be your weak point where the demons could get in."

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure what a spirit could offer me that'd tempt me. I've got other skills at my disposal that suit me well enough, so why would I make a deal with a spirit? If I didn't with that pride demon, I don't see how I would otherwise."

"And you don't think Merrill will, either?"

"No." It was one of the few things Líadan was absolutely certain about. "Making a deal with a spirit, she'd have to give up being _elvhen_. And that's the most important thing to her in her life. I think it gives her more strength of will than anyone realizes."

"I had not taken into account her devotion to the Dalish."

Back to infuriating Justice again. "Most people don't, considering she's living among humans. But for all the work she's done for the People, I believe she also sees her friends in Kirkwall as a clan, as well. Even you, even when you're being an ass."

"I'm fine with her," said Anders, the inflection of his voice assuredly him. "It's Justice who's conflicted. One minute he's railing on about her being a blood mage, and the next, he's defending her because she's a friend."

"I know. I can tell when it's him, even without the blue glow."

"How?"

"Your speech patterns change. Justice speaks differently than you do. It's hard to explain, but I can usually hear the difference. Do you even know when he's taking over?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. I'm not sure how long I have left until I'm just gone."

"I'll miss you, you know."

"I miss me already." He sighed again, and then shifted, his emotional discomfort manifesting in a physical one as they sat in the dark. "How about we discuss happier things? For instance, how is the child I delivered doing?"

Líadan rested her chin in her hand, searching the night for an excuse not to answer the question. If it were just Anders—the Anders she'd known years ago in Ferelden—she would've answered without hesitation. Putting Justice into the mix made it hard to trust him, but this was most certainly Anders now, and he was in control. She really did want to talk to someone about it, especially since Merrill hadn't wanted to visit. "Setting the world on fire," she finally said out loud.

There was just enough of a pause from Anders to show exactly where his thoughts went before he took a stab at optimism. "Not literally, I hope?"

"Maybe."

"A trick of the light, perhaps?"

"She might have tried to set her brother on fire, and there might have been lightning involved. But I can't be sure because Cáel got rid of the evidence. I still don't know where those shoes of his ended up, and he wouldn't say. Nor would he tell me the entirety of what happened, and Ava was even more resistant, and there wasn't enough time to really talk before we had to leave to come here. So, I'm not entirely certain what's going on, but it's enough to fill me with dread." It didn't help that she couldn't get rid of the memory of what she'd witnessed.

Though she'd had the trip from Denerim to Kirkwall to convince herself she'd imagined things, it hadn't worked. She couldn't shake the images of Cael's surprise or Ava's panic. All it had done was convince her that she'd seen exactly what she'd thought she'd seen, and she was kidding herself to believe otherwise.

"It'll be a problem, won't it? Bigger problem than the usual discovery of magic in a child?" His tone was gentle—the same tone he used when he told a patient they had an illness or injury that even he couldn't heal.

"Yes." She wasn't sure what they would do if it were true, and she didn't like to think of what might happen, because none of the scenarios were pleasant ones.

When Anders spoke again, his words had a hard edge as Justice slipped in. "You will not send her to the Circle."

"Go away, spirit. I need to talk to my friend, not you." Not that she had an argument with what he'd said. She agreed. What she did not like was that it hadn't been a question; it had been a command.

"It is not just, how the Chantry treats mages."

Her hands curled into fists at the frustration the spirit brought her. "This isn't about the Chantry. This isn't about your campaign against the unjust Chantry or your movement to free the mages from its control. This isn't about Thedas or political consequences or anything like that, not now. It—"

"Every mage is part of the battle, whether they acknowledge it or not. You must—"

"This is about my child, my daughter. It doesn't involve you, and if you were truly just, you would respect my wishes and let me talk to my _friend_."

There was silence for a time, interrupted only by the brief flap of an owl's wings as it took off from a nearby tree. Líadan recognized that Anders was fighting Justice, and could only hope that Anders would prevail. If he didn't, she couldn't be held responsible for what she'd do to the interfering spirit.

"I'm sorry," said Anders. "Justice, he… he doesn't get human emotion. He can only understand the world for what it is, and what parts have to be fixed because they're not just. It's about institutions and groups of people to him. He's still working on grasping the concept of individual people and how their emotions about a subject aren't going to be rational, no matter how much he decides to point out that they're being irrational. He's still got a long way to go."

"He's an ass." And it was the nicest thing she could think to say about Justice.

"I've called him worse. Doesn't really bother him, unfortunately. I'm sorry that he hurt you. I was shouting at him to shut up, but like he did with you, he ignored me. I know it's about Ava, and not really anything else at this point. You're afraid, and it's warranted."

"Obviously." If Justice had never butted in, she would have shared more, but she didn't feel safe speaking with Anders, not any longer.

He let out a sigh, indicating that he knew exactly why she'd become reticent, and that there was nothing he could do, unless he kicked out the spirit. "Does Malcolm know?"

"Not yet. I figured at least one of us shouldn't have to worry for a little while longer. I'll tell him after this mission is over." She knew he'd have done the same if he'd been the one to witness the fight.

There was another shared silence, the gap where everything she would have discussed with her friend remained trapped inside out of fear of what the spirit might say to hurt her.

Then Anders said, "I'm sorry. I know you didn't want this, even more than most."

She didn't reply, because she couldn't trust herself to talk without every worry tumbling outward.

Then Justice said, "This is not the way this world should be—"

Líadan stood, unwilling to listen to the spirit. "Our watch is over. You wake the others. I'm going to go sleep." Without waiting for acknowledgement, she started for the tent she shared with Malcolm.

"Líadan." It was Anders, but she didn't look back. She didn't want to see the broken expression of a lost friend who couldn't be saved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"I find myself drawn inexplicably to the principal seal. My waking moments are consumed by thoughts of it. I make excuses so that I might visit it. Then there are the journals of the Warden mage who created the seal using the artifact known as the key: What is the key? Can the seal be broken without it?

I have begun to suspect that these thoughts are not my own. Close scrutiny of my emotions and thoughts have led me to the frightening conclusion that this obsession was planted in me by the creature they call Corypheus. Corypheus wants me to learn about the seal and the key so that he may pluck the knowledge from my mind. Corypheus wants to be free, and he will stop at nothing to achieve his goal."

—_the last entry of the journal of Erasmus, a Grey Warden mage who, shortly after penning this entry, threw himself off the highest level of the prison tower in 1012 TE_

**Malcolm**

"Will you teach me how to hunt?" Malcolm asked Líadan, mostly because he was bored. Walking along a seemingly endless trail in an equally as seemingly endless forest got old, after a while. It had been a while, and it had gotten old, and they were still half a day away from the entry to the ancient fortress. Even then, since none of them fancied overnighting in what was pretty much the Deep Roads, they'd pitch a night camp a safe distance from the entrance, and then get started just before dawn the next morning. Also, Líadan had gone hunting with the shiny prince the day before, and she'd never taken _him_ hunting. While he wasn't insulted or threatened in the least, acting indignant over it could serve to alleviate the boredom.

Líadan raised a sharp eyebrow at him. "You can't even hunt the human way and you want to learn the Dalish way?"

"I… would look fetching in hunting leathers?"

"If you want to spend time alone with me, you could just say so."

There were some things that didn't need saying, and that was one of them, because he was always up for alone with his wife time, which she knew. Maybe she was bored, and more participation made for a better game. "So you don't think I'd look fetching in hunting leathers?"

"I think you'd look fetching in hunting leathers," said Sigrun.

His cheeks started to burn. He'd forgotten that Sigrun liked to play along.

"You want him?" asked Líadan. "I've been looking to foist him on someone else."

"Hey!" said Malcolm.

Sigrun shook her head. "No way. You married him. He's all yours. I just like admiring his finer attributes from afar, and then pointing them out."

That explained why she always insisted on walking in the rear of the column, he realized.

"Do you believe Malcolm would be such a terrible student?" asked Sebastian. "You have instructed apprentices before. Merrill has mentioned that you were good at it."

"The problem is that he can't move silently," said Líadan. "Even if he truly wanted to learn, I'm not sure he could. Maybe he could set snares or traps, but stalking would be impossible. He'd crash around the forest, or get bored and start a conversation. You know, like he did just now."

"So I could sort of learn? I didn't think there was anything I could do when it comes to hunting."

Líadan appraised him again, to which he shot her a hesitant smile. She returned it without the hesitation. "You're a good sailor, according to Isabela. I know it involves working with rope and a lot of different knots—"

"It sure does," said Sigrun.

Fenris chuckled as Líadan glared at her friend, and then resumed her explanation. "So, you could set competent snares, at the very least."

"There's hope for me yet!" Not that he much cared, but it was good to know he had something he could learn to do with hunting. Probably would've helped more to learn earlier in his life, however.

"I wouldn't go too far. That's about the extent of it."

By the time they'd camped another night and ventured into the Vimmark Wasteland, the extent of their hope had reached a definite end, and it resembled the Silent Plains. Blighted land right smack in the middle of the Vimmarks, and none of them had known. Malcolm wasn't even sure why there'd be blighted land still there. The rest of the area had recovered and then some since the Fourth Blight.

"Did the humans know about this?" asked Sigrun.

"Not that I'm aware of," said Malcolm.

"What about the Dalish?"

Líadan squinted out toward the distant stone structures that didn't look much better off than the ground they were built on. "The Dalish didn't even know about this valley, much less anything else down there."

"Huh." Varric stared where Líadan was. "There really is a fortress here in the middle of nowhere."

"It's a blank spot on the map," said Carver.

"It's not blank!" Sigrun jabbed a finger at the map she held, as if to prove it. "It says 'mountains,' right there."

"Because that's descriptive."

"Carver, that's exactly what it is. Descriptive. What more would you like?" asked Bethany.

"Fame and fortune is my guess," said Marian. When Carver grumbled and walked away, she shrugged and turned to others. "Shall we get going? The sun's just barely up. If we hurry, we can get below ground before we get a chance to bask in its warm light."

Anders let out a rueful laugh. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Marian, you should've been a Warden. With an outlook like that, you'd fit right in. Not to mention how you love to visit the Deep Roads."

"I don't love going there. Really, I don't."

"No? Then why don't you ever turn down the jobs that require you going in them?"

"Insatiable curiosity, of course." Marian gave Anders a solid pat on the arm as she walked by, headed in the direction of the fortress. "You should know that by now."

They weren't even halfway through the above ground ruins when crossbow bolts rained down on them from either side of the pass. Malcolm managed to raise his shield in time to keep two from hitting him. Another glanced off Carver's shoulder. Sigrun disappeared into the shadows to go after the hidden archers, while Varric unslung Bianca and started firing bolts right back. Fenris gnashed his teeth—Malcolm hadn't thought anyone _really_ did that until he'd met Fenris—and then did… something with his lyrium tattoos and Malcolm really needed to find out how he did that, because it was awesome. He didn't even know why Fenris bothered with the big two-hander he wielded, because he could just ghost around and rip out everyone's innards and call it a day.

Then a bolt burying itself into the dirt at his feet reminded him that he needed to pay attention. A few Carta had jumped out from their hiding spots, whom Marian immediately charged with her sword drawn. Sebastian seemed to take it in stride, bow out and strung and already firing surprisingly accurate arrows at their attackers. Carver, who'd finished swearing for the time being—honestly, the bolt hadn't even drawn blood—shouted at his sister to stay back, but she ignored him and plunged onward.

"Of all the—you're going to get yourself killed!" Then he brought his two-hander to bear and chased after his sister.

Malcolm kept his shield up. Because everyone else had run off, that left him as the wall between the attacking Carta and the ranged fighters on his side: Anders, Bethany, and the two archers. By the look of things, his shield was going to have a lot of new dings in it. He and Líadan and Bethany had fought alongside each other often enough that they didn't even have to think about what to do. Bethany had summoned her magic and started flinging offensive spells while still managing to stay inside what she knew from practice was the extent of Malcolm's range in staying between her and the attackers. Líadan stayed within the same area, her concentration like Sebastian's as she shot arrows from her own bow.

The skirmish didn't take terribly long. Most of the time was eaten up by trying to find the damned attackers, followed by putting them out of their misery. Since she was the first Warden to get close, Sigrun was the first to notice some differences in their attackers from the usual Carta. "Hey, you guys should look at this," she shouted from behind a half-fallen stone wall.

"Hold on," said Malcolm, quickly striding over to where Marian and Carver had laid waste to the few that had dared engage them with blades. Something had seemed amiss, and he'd wanted to confirm it before he went speculating out loud. He'd only gotten his shield up in time at the start of the fight because he'd felt ghouls, and the glimpses he'd caught seemed to indicate that the Carta were what he'd felt. Once he was close enough, Malcolm crouched next to the nearest Carta member's body to determine the truth. Sickly pale skin covered with blotchy black patches indicated corruption, and a peek under a few eyelids confirmed it. "Ghouls." He stood up to face the rest of the party. "Or well on their way to becoming one."

"That's what I was going to tell you," said Sigrun. "I wanted you to see them, because not only did they look like they were becoming darkspawn, they were talking about things that only happen to darkspawn. You know, like hearing…" she trailed off and looked at all the non-Wardens, and changed her mind on her wording. "...things." Then she hopped off the ledge and onto the flat ground. "So let's go kill some more."

There wasn't much opposition as they advanced toward the structure jutting out of a large chasm in the middle of the valley. Malcolm suspected, and Varric concurred, that the majority of the Carta waited below ground in the hideouts they'd build in and around the prison. Which meant they'd probably have to fight them to get _to_ the prison, though it would've been nice to avoid the delay.

It didn't help that Malcolm had no idea how to get inside the prison, and Hildur and the documents she'd given him hadn't revealed it, either. That was how the Wardens in the party ended up standing at the lip of the chasm, looking both up and down at the monstrous round tower built from stone, so tall they had to crane their necks up to see the top, and still couldn't see the bottom when they looked down. Malcolm didn't see anything pointing to an obvious entrance. Which, in retrospect, made a kind of sense, because getting in wasn't something that should be easy, what with it being a secret prison.

"Is this it?" asked Fenris.

"Looks like it to me," said Sigrun.

Carver stepped up to the chasm's lip to stand with the Wardens. "So how do we get up there? In there?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Not sure. It isn't like we were given instructions."

Carver scoffed. "No wonder the Wardens haven't ended the Blights yet, with organization like that."

"I'll end your face if you don't shut up," said Líadan.

Malcolm had to give Carver points for courage, because he actually turned to look at Líadan and address her threat. "You—"

"Try me. Because until you've fought an archdemon, you aren't allowed to criticize."

"Oh, come on. I did escape a sodding Blight."

"Let me give you some advice, Junior," said Varric as he deftly stepped in between them. "Let it go. You aren't going to win this one. You escaped a Blight. They _ended_ one. Check back in when you've done the same."

Carver took the time to glare at both Varric and Líadan before retreating to the rear of the group crowding on the edge of the chasm. Varric looked to be following for a moment, but broke off to inspect the wooden buildings nearby.

"So," said Malcolm, not thrilled at the strife within the party, but not surprised, either, "Anders and Bethany. You two were here before. How'd you get in?"

"We didn't go in," said Bethany.

Anders, who seemed slightly more pale than usual, nodded. "Stroud had us stay outside, in case they didn't come back out. They used an entrance in the Deep Roads, but it takes ages to get there. This was faster, I think. Less darkspawn, but more Carta."

"At least they smell better," said Marian.

Varric exited the building he'd entered, looking entirely pleased. "And I bet their hideout goes all the way to some sort of entrance to the prison, because there are a lot of stairs, and they all go down. Not to mention it seems like they've all contracted the blight sickness and they're all babbling about a key or Hawke's blood or darkspawn blood. Most direct route is through them, which means fighting a lot of Carta. Could you make them cry? I'd like to see that."

Marian grinned. "For you, Varric, anything."

As they descended, Malcolm was reminded of how much of a pain the ass it was to fight an organization populated almost entirely by deadly, sneaky people like Nathaniel. Even though the Carta they came against were nearly all far gone with the taint—like the poor fellow they'd found in the Deep Roads during the Blight, they'd consumed darkspawn flesh—it hadn't limited their ability to set traps. Good traps. Traps that Varric and Sigrun couldn't see from the rear of the group, and traps that Sebastian didn't seem to feel like announcing until it was too late.

Right as an iron spear from a spike trap went through the gap between the sabaton and greave on Malcolm's left leg, Sebastian called out, "Trap! Andraste's grace, there's a trap!"

Malcolm's ankle didn't hurt a little. It hurt a _lot_, and Sebastian had proven as useless as Leliana had been when 'helping' them avoid traps. Maybe it was a Chantry thing, maybe it wasn't, but Malcolm didn't particularly care when he couldn't even put weight on his foot. He dropped his shield, his sword right after it, and ripped off his helm in order to properly yell at the person who'd let him get hurt. "How about you say something a little sooner next time? Maybe before I've already got a spike through my leg? Because by then I already know there's a trap. Because I triggered it. Because you didn't say something in time."

While Malcolm complained, Anders had pushed to the front. As he crouched to assess the damage, Sebastian ambled over to what Malcolm presumed was the switch and disarmed it. He knew Sebastian had disarmed it because the spikes retracted, leaving a small round hole of searing pain in Malcolm's leg. As Anders quietly told Malcolm to sit down, Líadan crouched beside him to help remove the armor from his injured leg. In the meantime, Sebastian had the audacity to stand next to them, making a show out of glancing between them and the rest of the corridor probably riddled with Maker-forsaken traps.

"Perhaps one should not be sprinting ahead," Sebastian said after a moment.

Malcolm had bitten down on enough unkind words and no longer felt the need to, because it wasn't Sebastian's leg that'd taken a spike through it. "Fine. Later, when a genlock wants to run up and bite the legs off the royal archer behind me, I'll let him go right through because I'll be too busy daintily stepping through the battlefield."

"Good thing you said royal archer," Líadan muttered as she undid the last buckle on his greave. "Or we'd be having some words, you and I."

Anders let out a short, quiet laugh as he set to healing Malcolm's leg.

"It's like you and Choir Boy have already realized you're related to each other now," said Varric.

Malcolm's head snapped up. "What?"

Varric stroked his beardless chin. "Well, your brother—the adopted one, but a brother's a brother—is married to Choir Boy's sister, last I heard. That makes you brothers-in-law. Not quite the same as a brother, but related in the larger scheme of things. And now you're also related to Marian because she's married to your brother-in-law, which also means you're related to Carver. My condolences. On the bright side, it means you're also related to Sunshine. All through marriage, of course."

"That got complicated quickly," Sigrun said on her way by. Unlike useless scouts like Sebastian, she scampered ahead to disarm whatever traps she could find.

"It isn't like I'll let him die," said Malcolm, though he didn't say it was mostly because he liked Meghan, and she and Fergus had been good for each other, and he knew she wouldn't want her brother dead. "Maybe let him get a little maimed, scuff up his armor, get some dirt on him, but not die." Granted, he was perhaps feeling more magnanimous since Anders had finished healing his leg, which in turn no longer hurt, and was back to functioning normally. He thanked Anders and began to strap his armor back on.

"Well, I'm certainly relieved to hear it," said Marian.

Sigrun came running back before anyone else could weigh in. "There's more ahead. Just a few, and they didn't detect me, but they'll probably hear us soon. You know, because none of you can stop arguing."

"I'm not arguing," Malcolm said as he stood and tested his leg. "Just pointing things out."

"Aveline fills the same role as you do, Malcolm, when she fights alongside us," said Sebastian. "She does not complain about triggered traps. She is grateful when she is warned, and says nothing else on the matter. Perhaps it would do you well to learn from her example."

"Actually, she does complain." Marian gave Sebastian comforting, yet patronizing pat on the back. "Just not where you can hear it. Not that you're the only one she complains about. She does insist that if she had others helping her with being a literal shield wall that she wouldn't be getting the brunt of it all the time."

"If Carver didn't insist on using a sword so big that he needs two hands to hold it, so that he could actually pick up a damn shield, he'd make a good wall," said Malcolm. And he would. Carver had the brawn, more than Malcolm did, so he'd be able to stand his ground. Plus, while Carver was fast for his size, he wasn't spectacularly fast. Fenris, however, was just that sort of spectacular. The way he could deal damage to the enemy with such blinding speed would've meant wasting his talents if he were made to use a shield. But Carver would've honestly served better if he'd deigned to use a shield.

"I'm not going to prance around with a tiny sword like you do," said Carver.

"Comparing sword sizes?" Bethany asked her brother. "What are you? Twelve?"

"Right, no arguments going on here," said Sigrun, who mostly went ignored.

"I elect we go kill the rest of the Carta in our way," said Varric as he started down the corridor. "I haven't seen enough of them cry this morning."

Malcolm grumbled under his breath as he fastened his shield back onto his arm. He didn't have a tiny sword. It was a royal sword. It had been his brother's sword before it was his, and before that, it had been Maric's sword. He hefted the sword in question and took one step toward the corridor before Líadan reached out and hit his chest with his helm, which he had forgotten.

"You might need this, Killer," she said.

He sighed, sheathed his sword, put his helm on, and then took out his sword again. His not tiny sword, no matter what Carver said. Also, he did not prance. And shouldn't Carver be on his side in the first place, since they both weren't very keen on Sebastian?

Líadan smiled at him as she nudged him forward. "And don't worry, your sword isn't tiny."

He turned his head to look at her, glad that his helm hid the blush that'd risen to his cheeks. "I wasn't—I didn't mean it as a metaphor. I was talking about my actual sword." No, that wouldn't work, either. "My literal sword." He held it up to illustrate. "This one. The one I use to kill things, not whatever it was you were referring to."

"Of course you are."

"Seriously, I mean it."

His wife's widening smile told him she didn't believe him at all. "Of course you do."

Behind Líadan, Bethany had already started to laugh, even as readied spells glowed at her fingertips.

"Oh, for Maker's sake! You're both awful." Then Malcolm cut his losses and gave up, choosing to focus on getting to the front of the line before someone else got hurt. When he got there, he found that Varric and the others had already engaged the Carta—in conversation.

Not the normal sort of conversation, where people exchanged pleasantries and such. Varric was trying to convince someone who had once been a dwarf and was encroaching on becoming a darkspawn that his idea of drinking darkspawn blood in an attempt to hear music wasn't sane. Because it wasn't, and no one really ever came back from that.

Sigrun pointed that out to Varric, to which Varric sighed. "He's the dwarf who made Bianca. I can't just let him go on like this."

"No, you can't." Sigrun gave Varric a significant look, then her eyes went to Bianca, then Gerav, then she signaled with her hand that there were two more Carta dwarves waiting in the shadows.

After giving her a subtle nod in return, Varric brought Bianca to bear, and then fired a bolt straight at Gerav. At the same time, Líadan and Sebastian shot their own arrows at the Carta hidden in the shadows that Sigrun had so kindly pointed out. The last three Carta were dropped within seconds of each other. Neat and efficient and definitely a rarity, in Malcolm's experience.

Varric knelt over his friend's body, whispering something over him for a moment. When he stood, he seemed somewhat less rattled. "Hey, Princeling, could you have cured him? Like the other Wardens did with Sunshine?"

"Not when they're that far gone, no. I'm sorry." He didn't bother pointing out that becoming a Grey Warden wasn't a cure. With Avernus' changes to the Joining potion, it was more a cure than it had ever been, but in the end—if reached—the results were still the same. Either way, Gerav never had that chance. One didn't eat darkspawn flesh and drink their blood without becoming one of them very, very quickly.

"So am I," said Varric.

"What were they all talking about?" asked Carver. "A bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. The Master rising, the Master being free, the Master calling to them. Gibberish, all of it."

"I believe it is safe to assume these dwarves wished to free the ancient magister whom the Wardens have kept prisoner," said Sebastian.

Maybe Carver using such a big sword was a compensation for a tiny brain, thought Malcolm, because it was entirely obvious what the Carta had been on about with their talk.

Marian, who'd undertaken a thorough search of the room, had yet to lose her look of puzzlement. "All right, this has been bothering me for ages, so I'm just going to ask. Why would the Carta want to free the imprisoned ancient magister? Even the Carta aren't usually stupid enough to try to go freeing something the Grey Wardens thought too dangerous to roam free."

"You've got me there." Varric took some papers Marian handed to him, and began to page through them. "The Carta is usually only about business and brutality. Not necessarily in that order."

"I don't think they were themselves," said Bethany.

Líadan nodded in agreement. "They weren't. Not with how far gone they were. Corypheus must have been controlling them. Maybe like the archdemon controls the darkspawn."

There wasn't a maybe about it, Malcolm realized. Like him, he was pretty sure the other Wardens could hear Corypheus calling to them like an archdemon would. It wasn't music as the ghouls had described—which was a relief—but an annoying buzz that was _almost_ intelligible, but not quite. He could feel the insistence in the call, but he didn't feel compelled to follow it, or find its source and free it. He was still totally on board with killing it. From the looks he traded with the other Wardens, he could see they were experiencing the same thing. Anders still seemed a little pale, but Malcolm couldn't be sure if he were misremembering. Anders' pallor had trended toward sickly for the past few years, courtesy of an extended amount of time in Darktown, or the work of the Fade spirit sharing his body. Or maybe Justice wasn't particularly fond of doing actual Grey Warden work, which was possible, since Justice had been the one who'd made the decision for Anders to leave the Wardens.

"Best we go kill it," said Sigrun, "before it starts getting into our heads."

"And I thought it was just me," said Bethany.

Marian frowned at her sister, and then the rest of the Wardens, who all declined to meet her gaze. "None of you are going to explain that, are you?"

"Nope," said Malcolm.

At the same time, Bethany said, "Sorry, sister."

"Don't worry, Hawke," said Varric. "I'll explain it to you later."

Somehow, Malcolm wasn't surprised that Varric knew Warden secrets. He'd have been more surprised if Varric hadn't known. But he also wasn't worried about Varric knowing—Varric was a benevolent dealer of information, and had a keen grasp of what information could upset the delicate balance that was peace throughout Thedas. Varric liked to _know_, but he didn't much tell. He told stories, yes, but not so many secrets. It made him shockingly trustworthy, at least to Malcolm.

After taking stock of their preparedness, the group headed downward, into the depths of the Warden prison. The amount of decoration took Malcolm by surprise. It seemed everywhere they turned, they were confronted with a motif of the Grey Wardens. Whether it was large griffon statues serving as guardians to long-abandoned corridors, or exquisite carvings of the Joining cup, it all seemed to shout that this place had been built by the Wardens. Outside of Weisshaupt, Malcolm hadn't seen anything rivaling this prison when it came to draping itself in Warden trappings. Vigil's Keep, Soldier's Peak, and the Denerim compound in Ferelden had a few banners, but that was pretty much it.

Perhaps he should requisition a griffon statue from Weisshaupt when they got back home. He was sure Hildur would go along with it—she never turned down a chance to tweak the collective noses of the Anders Wardens.

"Do the Grey Wardens of Ferelden have anything like these statues in their outposts?" asked Sebastian.

"If we do, they're hidden extremely well," said Malcolm.

Sigrun ran her hand appreciatively along the griffon's wing. "I think we should bring one back with us. Spoils of war."

"It seems unnecessary for a prison," said Carver. "Wasteful. The Wardens should have been concentrating on killing darkspawn and ending blights, not commissioning pretty statues."

Marian turned to gawk at her brother. "Have you _seen_ the size of the statues in the Gallows? No one in service to the Chantry has any right to criticize any other organization's choice in statues. Not until that fifty foot tall Andraste comes down."

"Tearing down the statue of the Maker's bride would be sacrilege," said Sebastian.

"Then start by removing the statues of slaves from the Gallows." Fenris embellished his statement with a look of disgust shot in what seemed to be the direction of Kirkwall. "Due to the excesses of the magisters, it would take some years to finish the task."

"I'm not listening," Anders muttered from the rear of the group.

"Then be silent, mage," said Fenris.

Startled as he was by what he heard in his head, Malcolm barely heard Fenris' rebuke. The call had changed from the maddening buzz to very angry, very recognizable words.

_You will help me rise. You will abandon your quest to stop me and help bring me to the light. Leave the others behind. Attend to me._

Yeah, no.

Feeling no compulsion to obey, Malcolm ignored it, even if it was jarring. He did glance over at Líadan, who'd tightened her grip on her bow and cast a glare upward, toward the top of the prison as they crossed over one of many bridges. Then she looked over at him and shrugged. From Bethany and Sigrun's confused looks, and Anders' actual reply, it was easy to assume the other Wardens had heard the same thing as him. The deeper they went into the prison, the stronger Corypheus' voice got, but at least they weren't drawn to him or driven to obey him, like darkspawn would be, or those stupid tainted Carta members.

"So how do we know we're going the right way?" asked Marian.

"The griffons make a good trail. Daisy would like it," said Varric.

Carver scoffed. "The only good things about Wardens are their griffons, and they're all dead. You know what the Wardens need more of?"

"What?" asked Malcolm, not caring if he sounded irritated, because he was irritated, and Carver had been allowed too many cracks at the Wardens' expense as it was.

"Maps. This would go a lot quicker if we had a proper map."

"Because a map of a prison holding an ancient magister is totally something you want falling into the wrong people's hands. Because it would."

"Are you always this jaded?" asked Varric. "Doesn't seem like you."

"Only when it comes to darkspawn. Also ancient magisters."

"You been talking with Broody?"

"I would have killed it," said Fenris. "As the Wardens should have, like they do with archdemons and darkspawn."

Malcolm half-listened as the conversation continued, the lot of them traipsing through halls that hadn't been walked by those not doomed in a long time. He could feel the writhing mass of darkspawn below, but couldn't sort out if any were nearby. There were just too many of them, or Corypheus was manipulating what could be detected through the taint, like the Architect had done. Maker, Fenris was right. The Wardens should never have built an entire sodding prison to hold a powerful and puzzling specimen of darkspawn who they believed was an ancient magister. They'd even speculated that Corypheus was one of _the_ magisters who'd stepped through the Veil and into the Golden City. Malcolm was pretty sure if it was, he hadn't learned his lesson, not judging by the shouting he was doing through the taint. His requests were the same as before, but his temper was getting more out of control each time Malcolm and the other Wardens didn't obey him. While the others got disgruntled or determined looks on their faces each time Corypheus tried, Anders kept saying things out loud. Things like, "Get out of my head!" which wasn't very subtle at all.

Anders really needed to stop, but Malcolm couldn't see a way to get him to that wouldn't betray the reason why they needed him to stop to the non-Wardens with them. Keeping even a few secrets from Marian and the others was already going to be highly difficult, but if Anders kept it up, it would be nigh impossible. If Marian and Varric and the others discovered more Warden secrets—because a secret Warden prison wasn't enough—then he'd have a lot of explaining to do to Hildur. To a very disappointed Hildur. A Hildur who frightened him an awful lot, because when she got disappointed, she got serious, and when she got serious, she sent people on awful errands that threatened to break their very will to live.

Not that Malcolm had extensive experience with the sort of retaliation Hildur meted out when it came to stupidity. Or that he had any wish to encounter it ever again, because he'd learned his damned lesson the first time.

"Líadan," said Sebastian, "I was curious."

"Your sister already told me about that stage of your life," said Líadan. "Those were some good stories."

Marian picked up her pace to walk next to Líadan. "You simply must tell me everything. Everything."

Sebastian cleared his throat. "Not… that curiosity. I was wondering what the Dalish teach about the creation of the darkspawn."

"We don't, actually," said Líadan. "They're just there or not there. We think about them when they're there, and when they're not, we don't. Unless we're Grey Wardens. Then, you know, vigilance."

"Is that even an answer?" asked Varric.

"Sounded like a Dalish answer to me," said Malcolm. Specifically, it sounded like something a Keeper or a First would say, but he would never say that out loud, because he liked being alive.

The problem was, he'd been married for enough years that his wife knew him quite well, and therefore knew exactly what he _hadn't_ said. She spun to face him, walking backwards as she kept up with Marian. "Just what are you implying?"

"Nothing. No implications." The less he said, the better, or he'd start tripping over his own words.

Líadan gave him the same disbelieving stare she gave the children when they were clearly avoiding the truth. It was as effective on him as it was with them, and only Sigrun's shout from ahead saved him from being raked over the pyre.

"I found some demons!" Sigrun yelled from where she'd gone to scout ahead of them. She popped out from a side entrance and chucked a thumb at a larger one. "Goes to the same room. Bunch of demons in there."

"Did they not see you?" asked Sebastian.

Sigrun grinned. "Oh, they saw me. They just couldn't get to me. You have to see this."

As it turned out, the Wardens had seen fit to imprison a number of demons in magical cells, which according to the description Hildur had given Malcolm, was part of the corridor leading up to the first seal they needed to break.

_Yes, break the seal. Bring me to the sun. You will be rewarded._

Malcolm continued ignoring Corypheus, in part because he was far more intrigued by the demons. While the quarried stones that had built the prison showed edges blunted by the passing of the ages, the shimmer of magic holding the demons within their cells remained bright, no less strong than when the spell had been cast.

Marian kicked at the base of one of the cells, causing the desire demon inside to toss her a sultry smile in return. "There's got to be a reason they're in there," Marian said, pointedly looking away from the demon and toward her friends.

"I don't know, Hawke." Varric kept to the far edge of the wide corridor, his shoulder scraping the wall. "Maybe because they're demons? That would be my guess."

The demon flashed a nipple at Marian, to which Marian rolled her eyes. "Other than that."

"Sounded like a pretty good reason to me," said Carver.

"Yes, but why are they trapped _here_?" Marian flung a scowl at the desire demon, who'd fully bared both breasts to her. "I thought this was a prison for this Corypheus fellow, not random creatures of the Fade."

"Maybe to draw off the curious who cannot help but open anything their clever minds can, for the sport of it?" Sebastian gave Marian a pointed look.

She straightened and took a few hasty steps away from the desire demon's cell. "That was years ago!"

"There was an ancient evil sealed beneath Kirkwall, and you had to solve the puzzle, merely because it existed."

"I did solve it." When she crossed her arms, Marian resembled more an insolent child than a grown woman. "I merely underestimated what sort of 'ancient evil' the scroll meant."

"This is killing me," said Malcolm. "What was it?"

"Just a huge, scary pride demon," said Varric. "No sweat."

Marian nodded. "Right! We killed it. It may have… taken some time, but we did kill it."

"I still have a scar, you know." Sebastian managed to sound so pitiful that Malcolm nearly felt bad for him, even though he was mostly sure Sebastian was teasing Marian.

A delighted glint flashed in Marian's eyes as she turned to Sebastian. "Do you want me to kiss you and make it better? Or other things? Because I totally would. Right here."

"Sister!" said Carver.

Marian winked at him.

"So," said Sigrun, "are we going to free these things or not? Because I'm getting itchy fingers."

"Do any of you feel like fighting demons?" asked Fenris.

"No, not particularly," said Bethany.

"Then leave them locked up, so they may mire in their cursed prisons forever."

"Is there anything that isn't cursed?" Malcolm asked him.

Fenris straightened, and his scowl seemed to lift a little. "Butterflies," he said after a moment. As the rest cast bewildered looks in his direction, he resumed walking down the corridor.

Having taken the hint, the rest followed. The demons called to each member of the group as they passed, offering deals and temptations, or pleading for mercy from eternal boredom. None of the mortals engaged the demons in conversation, and the Wardens' attention was drawn by another before they'd even finished walking past the gauntlet of Fade creatures.

_None can avoid the fire in my veins. None can ignore my call. You will see._

Malcolm really wanted to tell him to shut up, but that would have to wait. Despite whatever the ancient magister believed, Corypheus wasn't the most important thing to him and the other Wardens at the moment.

Beyond the increasingly angry call from Corypheus, a single presence separated from what felt like a mass of darkspawn around them. The sudden appearance of a source of the taint that wasn't the magister or an indiscernible wall of darkspawn sent fingers of alarm racing up Malcolm's spine. He halted just past the last cell, the growling rage demon not even registering in his mind as he sought out the lone darkspawn. It was heading for them, but he couldn't figure out where it would appear.

Their group had emerged from the corridor and into a larger room, the last third of which had long ago crumbled and fallen into whatever waited below. When he stepped up to the edge and peeked over the side, Malcolm could only see a gaping maw of darkness. Vertigo began to creep in, yet he continued to search, up until someone grabbed his arm and jerked him away from the edge. He spun from the pull, and found himself face to face with a very irritated Líadan.

She poked him in the chest with the end of her bow. "You know how I feel about heights."

He glanced behind him and turned to her again. "I know, but I'm not you."

A brief twinge of worry broke through her irritation. "No, but it wouldn't—just stay away from the edge, all right?"

Recognizing her other, deeper fear, Malcolm took another step away from the sudden drop, and gave her hand a squeeze before he let go.

"Darkspawn coming," said Bethany.

Her declaration sent the non-Wardens in the group to staring into the shadows around them, as the Wardens had been doing since they'd left the corridor. "How many?" asked Marian. She'd taken point again, following her natural instinct when the Wardens had slowed to investigate what they'd felt.

"Just one, feels like," said Anders.

Sigrun squinted toward the walkway ahead of them, where shafts of light from a sun hidden above cut through some of the shadows to bathe the stone in light. "From somewhere ahead."

"Sister," said Bethany, her tone taking a hard edge. While the other Wardens had heard it plenty from her during battle, Marian apparently had not, and certainly wasn't used to it being directed toward her. Her head snapped around as she gave her younger sister a look of shock. Bethany's deadly seriousness abated for a moment. "I'd like you to not die of blight. Mother would be furious."

Marian gave a short laugh, and then she ceded the lead to the Wardens.

"Nearly here," said Líadan, bow in one hand and arrow in another as she stepped through to the front. Malcolm was right behind her and then in front of her, Bethany, and Anders. Next to Malcolm, Sigrun moved lightly from one foot to the other, readying to start her own little dark dance when the fight began.

The supposed darkspawn shambled from the shadows, and the group held ready to dispatch it once it was within range. Malcolm heard the creak of bowstrings drawn, the cocking of Varric's crossbow, and his skin tingled as Anders and Bethany drew on the Fade. Then the darkspawn stepped into the light cast from the sky far above.

Malcolm nearly dropped his sword. "Hold," he said, the order sounding stronger than he felt.

"Looks more human than darkspawn," said Carver. "Is that another ghoul? Shouldn't we kill it?"

"Shut up, brother," said Bethany.

"Why should I?"

"He's wearing Warden colors, you dolt," said Marian. "He isn't a ghoul. He's a Grey Warden, like them."

Was, thought Malcolm. He was just like them, once.

Marian continued, breaking away from scolding her brother in favor of asking questions only non-Wardens needed to ask. "How does a Warden end up like this? I thought you were immune."

Their supposed immunity was a common enough mistake to become a myth. Because the truth was too terrible to be known, it was a myth the Wardens allowed to perpetuate.

"The Calling comes to us all," said the near-darkspawn who had once been a human man. "It… it is a voice we cannot resist, and we follow it to our deaths. I went to mine, in the darkness, but Corypheus called. I followed. Here I am."

Though the cadence had some pauses, as if he had to recall how to speak, it was his. The shell of the man who stood before them in wrecked leathers with tattered scraps of blue left from what had once been a Warden tabard was someone they'd last seen in the Deep Roads, leaving on his Calling. He'd gone in the opposite direction from the other Warden party, leading the darkspawn away so the others could travel unopposed. Unable to resist the taint of a Warden so close to their own, the darkspawn had given chase. That day, Malcolm, Líadan, Sigrun, Anders, and the others had believed their Warden-Commander to have died. That it would be the last time any of them would see him. And now, here they stood, realizing that they had been terribly wrong.

Líadan was the first to say it, a hesitant guess voiced out of a desperate necessity. "Riordan?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Like many of you, I was once a thieving wretch. I was a servant to coin and my own base desires. And that is when I heard his call. Corypheus opened my eyes, just as he has opened yours, and showed me what was true.

What is the Carta beside Corypheus? Nothing but dust and ashes. Only Corypheus is eternal. We are his hands and his eyes on the surface. We are the ones he honored with his trust, to dig him from his prison in the Deep Roads.

When Corypheus steps into the sunlight, we will be rewarded. Praise him! Praise Corypheus!"

—_from a scrap of parchment, evidently notes from a speech_

**Líadan**

"I was Riordan."

His Calling had never ended. He'd never rested his eyes. He'd never found his freedom from the nightmares, the calling of the Old Gods, or from the Creators-forsaken taint. He'd never found his long-awaited peace. His path had no end, and they had let him go down it.

They had watched Riordan walk into the Deep Roads over seven years ago, carrying only his daggers. No food. No pack. One did not need to bring items for sustaining life when one was setting out to end it. His weary soul had needed rest, to be freed of the taint and the cloying shadows it carried, but he'd never found his peace.

He'd wandered for years in the darkness, and no one had gone to save him.

"Maker," said Anders.

Riordan's hair had fallen out in clumps, leaving only erratic tufts clinging to his scalp. His skin was mottled and grey, some areas seeming like they were sloughing off, others thick and gnarled. A white film covered eyes that had once been a bright, engaging mix of blue and green. Líadan wanted to wipe the film from his eyes, find all the missing hair and put it back, put everything back to rights and restore her friend and mentor, but it was too late for that.

"You were supposed to go to the Stone," said Sigrun.

"I am dead," said Riordan, "but I never died."

They'd watched him as he strode away, his steps quick and sure, his manner almost content with the path he'd chosen. But it hadn't been the path he'd taken. They'd lived their lives above ground, while he was lost for years below. "Then we abandoned you," said Líadan.

Riordan shook his head. "No. I left. My choice. My Calling."

"You were supposed to—before _this_ happened, you—"

Riordan's clouded eyes widened, and his stooped shoulders briefly straightened. "He calls now. I must go. I must answer."

Then he was gone, his ability to fade into the shadows not having been lost. Not when he'd become the shadows, and they hadn't even known.

Darkspawn fell upon them, eliminating any chance they had at tracking Riordan. Cutting through them took up the entirety of their attention, the five Wardens dropping into roles that they'd played for years—even Anders hadn't rusted in his ability to kill darkspawn. His glyphs kept them healthy, while Bethany's offensive magic burned the darkspawn several at a time. Malcolm positioned himself between any charging darkspawn and the ranged fighters in their group, absorbing blows meant for the mages or the archer. Sigrun flashed in and out of the battle, the light from above sometimes catching on the blades of her axes. Líadan stayed back with Bethany and Anders, sending arrow after arrow into the targets she sighted, her focus on her task and _not_ thinking about the lost Riordan.

It had been _years_. She'd been upset and unsettled for a while after he'd taken his Calling, but she'd eventually come to terms with it. The double blow of losing Riordan so soon after unexpectedly losing Fiona had left her feeling somewhat lost, herself. But in the intervening months and years, she'd regained her perspective, and found her way again.

Right up until they'd stumbled on a dead-but-not Riordan in a secret Grey Warden prison. Her next arrow pierced the cheek of the hurlock she'd targeted. She cursed and shot another, hitting it in the eye as it reeled sideways. It fell backwards to land on two genlock corpses, and didn't rise. Líadan glanced around for her next target, but there were none. The additional help of Marian and her companions had easily doubled the pace at which they got through battles. While earlier it had been a boon, now Líadan wasn't so thrilled with it. Fighting would keep her mind from ruminating over Riordan's fate. Fighting would drown out the overwhelming guilt that they'd never thought to rescue him.

Yet now that they knew he hadn't met his final end, they couldn't go searching for him, not reliably. There was nothing to feel that they hadn't felt before his appearance. Writhing mass of taint above and below, and no individuals emerging from it, not until they were nearly in their faces. In every practical sense, he was gone.

Líadan avoided talking, choosing instead to recover her arrows from the darkspawn, and even nicely collecting Sebastian's arrows at the same time. Not really out of the goodness of her heart, but because it postponed having to acknowledge that she'd been left more than a little off balance. Then she'd collected all the arrows she could find and glanced back and forth between her group and the dark bridge and corridors beyond. There had to be more battles ahead, if they just got there faster.

"Are you all right?" Malcolm asked from a few paces away.

She gave him a look that told him exactly how stupid a question it was.

He shrugged it off, his lips quirking into a rueful half-smile. "It seemed rude not to ask, even if I knew the answer beforehand. Because I did."

Part of her wanted to be able to talk about it, but not with people around who wouldn't understand. While Marian and the others were certainly friends, they weren't Wardens. Since she couldn't talk, she needed more distractions. "I could use more darkspawn to kill."

"You and me both, sister," said Sigrun. "Though I'd take some demons, in a pinch."

Malcolm looked between the two of them, and then nudged a genlock corpse with his boot. "Would kicking these bodies into the depths help out any?"

"Actually, yes." Líadan got started with the one at her feet, rolling it to the edge and right off the bridge. Sigrun and Malcolm joined in, along with Bethany, and they made fairly short work of clearing the way for the non-Wardens. Anders was busy grumpily healing a tweaked elbow that Fenris had failed to mention before.

The four of them straightened and found Marian standing at the foot of the bridge, her arms crossed and her face determined. "Someone," she said, "is going to tell me what's going on with this 'Calling' business."

"Sorry, can't," said Malcolm. "Warden stuff. I'd tell you more, but I'm not allowed, and I'm way more scared of Hildur than I am of you. Don't get me wrong, you're pretty far up on the list, but Hildur's still above you."

Before Marian could press him further, Anders said, "Becoming a Grey Warden isn't a cure."

Malcolm sighed. "Dammit, Anders. You shouldn't—"

"It's really just of way of slowing the inevitable," Anders continued, paying no attention to Malcolm's objections, or the disgruntled looks from the other Wardens in the group, including Bethany. "You're still tainted, but it takes around thirty years or so before it catches up with you. Sometimes more, sometimes less. In the end, you'll still end up a ghoul. So, instead of waiting around for the inevitable, Wardens march into the Deep Roads to die fighting the darkspawn. It's called the Calling."

Marian's eyes had widened slightly as Anders spoke, and when he ended, she slid her gaze over to Bethany. "Is this true?"

Bethany opened her mouth to answer, then shut it and glanced over at Malcolm and Líadan, silently asking for permission to continue revealing what Anders had started. Malcolm motioned with his hand for her to talk, making it clear that Anders had already given away too much for anything to be taken back.

"Yes, it's true," said Bethany. "I didn't want you to know." She pointed at Carver. "And don't you dare tell Mother. She's dealt with enough. She doesn't need to carry this."

"I'm sorry," said Marian.

Bethany shrugged. "It is what it is, as Aveline would say. Better than the alternative."

Her brow furrowed, and then Marian turned to Anders again. "What about Wardens who don't happen to contract the blight sickness before they become Wardens?"

It was Líadan who spoke up this time. "Anders, don't—"

"What do you think the Joining is?" asked Anders. "The Joining potion isn't a fancy wine."

"For Maker's sake, Anders!" Malcolm stepped forward, having gone from irritated to verging on angry. "Should we just sit down for a break right here while you regale them with every Warden secret there is? Or could you, you know, show some respect and solidarity for the order you abandoned?"

It wasn't Anders who answered. The lyrium-blue of Justice's possession blazed through Anders' eyes and skin, driving him toward Malcolm. "It is an order undeserving of respect. They encourage the use of blood magic. They force recruits to take the Joining potion or be killed for fear of their secrets being revealed to the world. They give no warning. They give no quarter. They are not just."

"Neither are the darkspawn, if you haven't noticed." Malcolm hadn't retreated as Justice advanced, and the two of them stood only a sword's length apart. Anders' height left Malcolm looking up at him, though Malcolm was usually half a head taller than most human men. Anders, like Merrill had said before, was somewhat of a giant. And with Justice possessing him, he was imposing, as well. But if Malcolm felt the same menace as Líadan felt in the confrontation, he didn't react to it.

"If one must resort to the tactics of the darkspawn, one is not worthy of the victory."

"Being alive and slightly bloodied is a lot better than being dead with unsullied honor. Anders knows that, Justice. Maybe you should listen to him. Maybe you should listen to the rest of us, who have been mortals for a lot longer than you. You don't know anything about being a mortal, demon, no matter how—"

Justice drew his arms back and then flung them forward, throwing a bolt that sent Malcolm skidding on his back to the middle of the bridge. "I am no demon!"

Shouts went up from the group as Justice stepped forward and brought his staff to bear. Carver hit him with a smite that barely slowed him, and an arrow from Líadan's bow skimmed Justice's ear. Blood flowed freely from the cut, but Justice didn't stop.

"Hey! He's an ally!" shouted Marian. "Justice!"

Líadan sprinted toward them, intending to put herself between Malcolm, who was trying to scramble to his feet while holding his shield over his body, and Justice, who seemed intent on using his stave like a spear. But Sigrun had traveled faster through the shadows, catching the staff between her axes and pushing its tip into the stone underfoot.

"He's your friend," said Sigrun. Justice took a half-step, but Sigrun planted her feet and forced him to stay put. "I'm your friend," she told him when he turned his rage from Malcolm to the dwarf in his way. "And you are his friend."

"I am no friend," said Justice. "I owe him nothing."

"He saved the life of the body you inhabit," said Líadan. "I was there. Those templars would have killed Anders or made him Tranquil if Malcolm hadn't intervened. How is it justice if Justice kills him over a minor disagreement?"

"It would not be…" Then Justice slumped and his blue light winked out, leaving Anders to deal with the consequences. "...just," Anders said, sounding even more tired than he had before they'd gone into the prison.

Sigrun lowered her axes and took a step back.

"I'm sorry," Anders said to her, and then turned to Malcolm. "I'm sorry. I am." Then he offered his hand to help Malcolm up. After he looked at it dubiously, Malcolm accepted the help while Anders castigated himself. "Justice just couldn't stay contained, not with the voice. He's so frustrated with hearing it over and over, with fighting its commands, with the Wardens for having the connection in the first place. I shouldn't have said what I did."

"No, you shouldn't have," said Bethany.

Líadan raised an eyebrow at Bethany's quietly spoken condemnation. While Bethany had settled into the life of a Warden well enough, she'd never been particularly enthusiastic about the order. Then again, neither was she, and neither was Malcolm, but they did what they had to, and enjoyed what parts of it they could. Being in the Wardens, even if you didn't like it, meant you still got a first-hand understanding of why the Wardens were necessary to Thedas. Anders revealing secrets like he was put the Wardens in danger, and without the Wardens, the next Blight would never end. They all knew the danger, and that was what made them keep the secrets. Anders—Justice—had ignored that.

"You had about thirty more seconds left before I was going to put an end to you, for good," said Marian. Her voice was as quiet as her sister's, which made it far more menacing since Marian was rarely soft spoken. "Don't forget my promise, Anders. I won't break it. Not even here." She let out a long breath before turning to Malcolm. "Onward, then?"

He nodded and set off without a word.

After a few minutes, Líadan noticed that Anders' ear still bled. He'd never bothered to heal it, even though to a healer like him, such a thing would be a reflex. He was punishing himself, and she wouldn't let him. She caught up to him. "Your ear. You haven't fixed it."

"I know."

"If you don't fix it, I'll have to try."

The smile was minuscule and fleeting, but was there. "Only from you would that be a threat."

"It isn't a bluff, so get to healing, healer." She chose her words deliberately, a reminder to him of the identity he treasured most: healer. If anything could save him, it was that. But now she wondered if it would only delay the inevitable, given Justice's recent displays of strength.

"All right." His hand went briefly to his ear. When he removed it, no hint of the cut remained. "Nice shot, by the way. Enough an injury to make your point, but not enough to kill or maim me."

"You did threaten my bondmate. Who said I was aiming for your ear?"

He looked at her sidelong. "You can be scary, you know."

"Keeps people off balance."

He nodded. "It works. Justice doesn't know what to make of you."

"I don't care about him. I care about my friend. And if he ever entirely gets rid of my friend, Justice won't like me at all."

Anders had no reply, and so the quiet slog went on until they broke first of the prison's seals.

The ensuing fight with the pride demon that appeared provided a far less tense atmosphere than the silence that had prevailed before. Battle was easy. No thoughts aside from the moment, and the few moments that could happen afterward. Reacting when plans didn't go right, strategizing when plans seemed to work. Dodging the bolts of fire the demon sent the archers' way, calling out warnings to those close in when the demon prepared for other attacks, shouting at loved ones when they didn't seem to move fast enough to avoid a stomping foot or a fist of flame aimed at their head—all of it served well to keep the reality that a friend was turning into an abomination out of their minds, or that their former Warden-Commander's Calling had never ended.

Eventually, the pride demon fell, and they were able to continue onward. But the strange call of Corypheus hounded them, declaring his satisfaction with their ability to break the seals. Anders kept swearing under his breath about the voice, but he was the only Warden reacting outwardly. Líadan traded a glance with Malcolm, who only had a shrug and a look of frustration to offer, but that much told her that he was hearing the same as she was. The only thing they could do was ignore it, for it wouldn't stop until they killed Corypheus.

"Entirely out of curiosity," said Marian, fully ignorant of the internal debates each Warden was having with the ancient magister, "how many seals are there?"

Malcolm frowned. "I'm not sure."

"It isn't in your little journal?"

"No. There's some stick figures running away from a dragon, though. I think Hildur got bored."

Líadan gave him a warm smile, grateful for whatever humor they could find in such tense conditions. "You're misremembering. It was you who got bored."

"Could you not have paid more attention?" asked Sebastian. "Perhaps if you had, we would know the exact number of seals to expect."

From her place standing behind Sebastian, but facing Marian, Bethany rolled her eyes. "I did pay attention, _brother_. The Warden-Commander didn't know how many there were. No one knows, except maybe my father. Shall we try to conjure him up?"

Marian did a poor job of hiding her laugh. "Bit snippy, are we?"

"I'm sorry. It's just—Corypheus is more annoying than Carver. I'm looking forward to killing him just so he'll shut up."

"You mean me or the magister?" asked Carver.

"We'll have to see."

By the second seal, Malcolm had switched to actively complaining during the battle. Líadan knew she shouldn't be amused—they were fighting a pride demon, after all—but Malcolm hadn't gone on like this in a long time. He hadn't really had the opportunity, none of them had. Even their trips in the Deep Roads only contained short skirmishes, which hardly approached the level of fighting they'd done during and immediately after the Blight. With a team as large as they had with them now, and the skill amongst them, even the pride demons posed less a threat than usual. Not that they could afford to be distracted, because that tended to lead to painful injury and mocking from the others.

"I don't want to fight anymore pride demons," Malcolm said as he ducked the demon's swinging fist. "Why'd they have to put pride demons in the seals? Horrible idea."

"As was imprisoning the magister instead of killing him," said Fenris.

"Would you rather fight dragons?" asked Varric.

Marian rolled underneath a spirit bolt the demon sent her way, and then briefly looked at Varric. "What kind of dragon are we talking?"

"High dragon."

"Archdemon?" asked Malcolm. "Because they cheat. Spirit fire instead of regular fire."

"No, just a regular high dragon for—Blondie and Sunshine! Watch out, demon looks like it's going to do something nasty to your magic."

Malcolm covered his head with his shield and drew the demon's full attention. At the same time, Marian motioned for Sigrun to run and then use her back to leap up to the demon's head.

"Dragon," said Marian as she straightened. "So much a dragon."

Sigrun slammed both her axes into the demon's head, and remained standing on top of it as it fell over. Then she jumped off and preened at her show of dexterity. Fenris gave her a nod of respect, while Anders pretended to clap in appreciation. No Justice there, Líadan noticed. Very much the old Anders, as if he were determined to prove Justice didn't have control. It almost worked.

"You worry me, you know that?" Carver said to Marian.

"Only the blessings of the Maker have thus far kept her from harm," said Sebastian.

Marian grinned. "And hiding behind pillars while being chased by an arishok."

"That's not how Varric tells it," said Carver.

"Right, because we believe Varric's version of any story."

"Hey, you never know," said Varric. "Some people get drawn into it. Might come in handy someday."

Anders halted mid-step toward the next doorway, and his hands slapped over his ears as his face scrunched in pain. "Stop! Just make him stop talking! Make him stop!"

"And here I thought you loved my stories!"

His eyes still squeezed shut, Anders shook his head. He kept talking in a mumble that wasn't audible to the humans and dwarves in the group, but Líadan could hear it easily. _I must hold against them. I must hold against them both_.

Fenris' dark brows drew into a deeper scowl, and then he gave Líadan a questioning look. She shrugged, unsure which unasked question of many he wanted answered. He threw another caustic look at Anders before stepping quickly to stand next to Líadan. "The abomination," he said quietly to her. "Is he safe?"

She wanted to say yes. This was Anders they were talking about, a man who'd saved her life quite a few times, a man who'd once been a very good friend, one whom she'd trusted with her child's life. But this wasn't him. It hadn't been Anders who'd lost his temper and threatened Malcolm earlier, on the bridge. It had been Justice, just as it had been Justice who'd taken over the conversation she'd had with Anders while they were on watch. "I don't know," she said to Fenris.

"Neither do I. He'll kill us all if he allows his insanity to take him."

"If that happens, I think there are enough of us to stop him."

"We should be so lucky." Then Fenris fell silent, his gaze not shifting from Anders.

Líadan sighed and moved ahead to walk with Malcolm as they left the broken seal and the dead pride demon behind. Sigrun had already trotted past them to scout for traps, and Líadan could hear the rest of the group trudging along behind them. One set of boots picked up the pace, and soon enough, Varric appeared next to them.

When the two Wardens gave Varric a questioning look, he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Just pretend I'm not here. I won't even take notes."

For a long while, silence prevailed over the slog downward into the prison. They passed through hallways long abandoned, riddled with cobwebs and scurrying creatures. They traversed bridges that clung precariously to their anchors, and then found themselves at what they assumed was the bottom floor—the ground had changed from paved stone to rocks and dirt, and they met with the first appearance of deepstalkers. No one had missed them, not in the least. With their trip now really resembling the Deep Roads, the walk became even more drudgery.

All of them could hear Anders' muttering, and it wove a thread of fear that slowly pierced each one of them, pulling taut as they waited for him to snap, and them with it.

"So is Fenris going to kill Anders?" Malcolm asked Líadan after another one of Anders' comments. "I assume that's what he was telling you earlier. You know, fair warning and all that."

"Not sure. He's not sure if he is, and I'm not sure if he is. But it isn't like we can keep ignoring it."

"Not with him going on like he is we can't."

"We'll get Blondie through it," said Varric. "We've always talked him down before, and we can do it again. Justice isn't entirely unreachable. He's been appearing a lot more, but it's nothing we can't handle. If—" Varric's eyes flicked toward Malcolm's drawn sword, which Malcolm had been keeping half-ready at his side. "Princeling, did you know your sword glows even when you're not fighting? That's kind of cool."

Malcolm glanced down and swore. "The runes glow when there are darkspawn nearby."

"Not as cool." Varric hefted his crossbow to indicate his readiness. The rest took their cue from him, as well as further ones from Malcolm raising his sword and shield and Líadan slowing slightly as she nocked an arrow. Then she and Varric lagged behind enough so that Malcolm could cover them should the darkspawn attack from the front.

Except Líadan couldn't feel a darkspawn. Well, she could sense a _lot_ of darkspawn, but only as a big group writhing around and above and below them. Compared to the increasingly loud voice of Corypheus as he called to the Wardens, the taint lurking with the darkspawn was of little consequence. The ancient magister seemed determined to make her and her fellow Wardens do what he commanded, which was free him and decidedly not kill him. Disobeying him held a lot more precedence over killing some common darkspawn.

She saw no compelling reason to free Corypheus. Fenris was right—the Wardens should've killed Corypheus when they'd discovered him. Maybe the taint granted by the Joining had been different then, allowing Corypheus to influence the Wardens' decisions more. He certainly didn't have hold over her and the other Wardens with them today.

_You are stronger than I thought, tiny insect. The time will soon come when you _will _obey me_.

Too bad for Corypheus, obedience had never been her strong point. If anything, it seemed like the early Wardens would've killed Corypheus due to his commentary alone. Creators, he was persistent.

"You know," Malcolm said without looking back, "he's really starting to annoy me."

"There's no need to get personal," said Varric.

"Not you. Corypheus."

"Wait, so you're all hearing the same as Blondie?"

"Yes," said Líadan, still searching for the darkspawn Malcolm's sword insisted were present. "Each seal we break, he gets louder. It's irritating."

"You think Justice is why Blondie's having a hard time of it?"

"That's my guess," said Malcolm.

The conversation faded to Líadan as she felt the presence of darkspawn separating from the diffuse mass around them. After a moment spent staring into the ruins beyond the path Sigrun had picked out for them, she started toward the supposed darkspawn. She hadn't taken more than two steps before Anders began to yell.

"You shouldn't go that way!"

She spun to face him. "Since when do Wardens run away from darkspawn? We hunt them, Anders." She pointed toward a short set of steps carved into a ruined rotunda located a middling distance from the main path. "There are darkspawn over there. I'm going to go kill them, and I'd prefer it if other Wardens came with me. You can stay here if you want, for all I care."

He met her gaze, his eyes dim with mourning before she saw the flash of blue, and then his hands clutched at his head. The muttering began again, Anders ignoring the world outside him as he wrestled with two demons within.

"I will stay here with him while the rest of you investigate, for even Andraste tells us to help the sick and infirm," said Sebastian. "I will not allow him to come to harm."

Bethany took a step in the direction of the ruin, then bit her lip as she stopped to look back at Anders. Empathy overrode her indecision, and she returned to stand with Sebastian and Anders. "I'll stay here, too. If Anders can't fight, then we can't leave Sebastian without a Warden between him and the darkspawn."

"Bethany, I'm perfectly able to—"

"No one doubts your skill, my dear royal archer," said Marian. "However, you continuing to not catch the blight sickness is something I've an invested interest in. The more Wardens between you—or any of us—and the darkspawn, the better."

Unaccompanied by further warnings from Anders, Líadan continued toward the elusive darkspawn. As she got closer, she sensed very few, three at most, but that didn't alleviate her trepidation as she ascended the crumbling steps into the rotunda. As soon as she stepped inside, she jerked to a halt, staring at a statue of a kind she'd only seen once before, on Sundermount. She'd touched it and heard the voice of a lonely spirit, and it had only been Sten's actions that had saved her from an ugly fate. Anders had taken that fate upon himself later, when he'd visited on his own and taken in Justice.

She still wasn't entirely convinced that Justice and the lonely spirit weren't one in the same. Now she stared at another of the statues, and strangely wondered if it contained another terribly lonely spirit.

"Holy shit," Malcolm said from behind her. "That's—"

"It is an altar dedicated to Dumat," said Fenris, as he and the others walked in around Líadan, who remained still as a rock within a flowing stream. "It should be destroyed before we move on."

"I'm for it," said Marian.

"But if that's Dumat, why doesn't he look like a dragon?" asked Malcolm. He'd stayed behind to stand next to Líadan, his steady presence helping in defeating the memories plaguing her.

"It's not like any of us are going to know," said Carver. "Except maybe Fenris."

Fenris advanced on the altar, his two-hander already out and ready, as if a mere sword could destroy stone. "Slaves are not informed of such things."

Malcolm heaved an overly-dramatic sigh. "And here I was, hoping you had all the answers."

"Hope will only bring you bitterness. You have lived long enough in this world that you should know this."

"You had to think long and hard about his nickname, didn't you?" Malcolm asked Varric. "Surely it didn't just leap out at you."

Varric chuckled. "Broody named himself, just like the rest of you did, even if you didn't know it." Then his mirth turned to seriousness as he looked in Líadan's direction. "Princess looks like she's seen a ghost, though."

"In a way," she said. "It's a long story." And it wasn't one she was sure she wanted to tell, not with how it involved Anders and his current struggle. One or more of their party might get overzealous, particularly the templar. Whatever loyalties Carver might have to his sister, he was still a templar, and Anders wasn't a relative. In addition to Carver, there was Fenris, who had already clearly expressed his desire to end Anders' threat. While Líadan didn't disagree that Anders—Justice—was slowly becoming more of an overt threat, she didn't feel he yet warranted the immediate action some of the others would want to take if they knew what had happened on Sundermount.

"I'm a story kind of guy," said Varric.

"And when I'm ready to tell it, I'll let you know." Her words weren't said unkindly, and she gave him a soft smile to reassure him that there weren't any hard feelings.

He nodded. "When that day comes, you can have all the drinks you want on my tab at the Hanged Man."

"You have a deal." The scene around her became sharper, now freed from the haze of memory, and she could still sense darkspawn. She frowned and glanced around them, ignoring the altar.

"I feel it, too," said Malcolm. His sword hadn't stopped glowing. "Sigrun, you want to help Fenris destroy the monstrosity? The rest of us can poke around outside before this elusive darkspawn raiding party drives us mad."

"Already driven Anders there," Carver said as they headed down the steps.

"Corypheus is driving him mad." Marian gave her brother a friendly slug in the shoulder. "Not random darkspawn. Possibly Justice. I'm willing to accept that as an explanation."

"It is the call of Corypheus that compels him, and his struggle against it that sends him to madness." The voice came from beyond a half-fallen wall, but Líadan knew who it was before he even moved into view. Malcolm's sword flared as Riordan became visible, looking no better than he had the first time they'd encountered him here. "His calls grow stronger as you break the seals. His commands harder to ignore. We cannot hide from him. He feels us walk where no step goes."

"What does that even mean?" Marian asked no one in particular.

"It means he must be killed. If you do not, he will not stop, and darkness will cover everything. The corruption will take everything. All will do his bidding. You will end up as I have, wandering for years in the darkness, searching for a light that will set you free."

Líadan wanted to take a step toward him, but the fear of what Riordan had become, the reality of what had happened when he'd left them—when they'd let him go—rooted her in place. "Riordan—"

"I am not him. Not any longer. All I know is that you must kill him, before…" In slow, jerky movements, Riordan looked upward, toward something in the distance that no one else was privy to see. Then his milky eyes widened, and he bolted, melting into the shadows as easily as a Dalish hunter.

She swore. So many years in the darkness, and Riordan kept returning, and they kept letting him go. But even if they caught him, he was so far into the shadows that there would be no return.

"Seriously? You let him go again?" asked Carver. "No wonder the Wardens never get anything done, letting ghouls like that just run off to terrorize whoever they like."

Malcolm rounded on him, a deeper anger than mere irritation marring his features. "Don't you even think about talking to me about dealing with ghouls. Not until you've been left to deal with an entire village of them. Not until you've had go back through a town you'd seen a week prior, full of living people, to search for whatever the darkspawn might have left behind."

"Survivors, you mean," said Carver. "Not that hard."

"Darkspawn don't leave survivors."

"Sure they do, just—"

"Darkspawn don't leave survivors in a town so blighted that the ground is black with corruption, where the very air is permeated with the taint that will kill you with blight sickness." Malcolm had tensed, his anger too visceral for mere frustration with Carver. It was something that stemmed from the Blight that rushed up and out, and Carver had unwittingly invited it. "You might find people who appear alive, who you think are living and breathing, but they're already dead. They just don't know it yet, and neither do you, because you aren't a Warden."

"Look, Warden or not, I was at Ostagar. They showed ghouls to the army. I fought darkspawn. I fought my way from the massacre all the way to my family in Lothering before we escaped to Kirkwall. Just because I'm a templar and not a Warden doesn't mean I haven't killed my share of darkspawn, or that I haven't seen my share of ghouls."

Malcolm, who'd seemed ready to entirely unleash his full opinion as Carver kept talking, opted to stare, instead.

"What?" asked Carver.

"Lothering, you said? You're from Lothering?"

"You mean I hadn't told you the story?" Varric asked as he wandered between them, presumably to break up the argument, but they'd already done it themselves. "I could've sworn I had. One of my best ones, really, their daring escape from the darkspawn sack of Lothering, journeying to Gwaren and finding passage on a ship to Kirkwall. There was even a dragon."

Malcolm shot Marian a questioning look.

"He's telling the truth about that one," she said.

Then Malcolm smiled at Carver and Marian, seemingly thoroughly happy, his anger forgotten, and no one other than him having any clue as to why. "That's fantastic," he said to them. "I never thought…" He shook his head, hint of a self-satisfied smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. "Good."

Varric craned his neck to look up at Malcolm. "Are you cracking up like Blondie?"

"Nope. Very sane."

"You aren't going to explain it, are you?"

"Not right _now_. We've got darkspawn and an ancient magister to kill, don't we?"

"Yes," said Marian, drawing out the word. "And, speaking of killing and darkspawn, how is it the darkspawn haven't killed that other Warden yet?"

The fleeting happiness disappeared from Malcolm's face, and he cast a troubled look toward the shadows where Riordan had gone. Then he let out a long breath of air and started heading for the main path, where they'd left their other three companions. "I'll tell you as we walk," he said once the rest began to follow.

Líadan caught up to him as they wove through rocks and ruins. "Are you sure?"

He shrugged. "It isn't like Anders hasn't already told practically everything. No point in holding much back, now. It'll just make it worse."

She glanced back to make sure the others were far enough behind that they wouldn't overhear a whisper. Satisfied that they were, she asked him, "Why that reaction to Lothering?"

"It's an involved, awful story that also has some embarrassing parts concerning me."

"It's got me curious."

"I'm sure it does. If you promise not to tease me about it, I might even tell it to you."

"You ask so very much of me."

He let out a soft chuckle, but they broke through the ruins and returned to the main path before he could reply. Sebastian caught sight of them, relief plain in his eyes. Anders was the same: crouching low to the ground, shoulders hunched over, his pallor pale and sickly, yet his eyes burned bright with the struggle going on in his head.

"I can't sense those darkspawn anymore," Bethany said as they approached. She gave Anders' arm a reassuring squeeze before she straightened and stood. "I take it you took care of them?"

"It was just one," said Líadan. "Riordan."

"Why would you call another Warden a darkspawn?" asked Marian. "I mean, I know he's a far-gone ghoul, but I think darkspawn might be a tad much."

Without consulting the others, Malcolm resumed their walk toward the separated tower section of the prison. "He might as well be one. That's the answer to your question. Usually when darkspawn feel a Warden, they immediately try to kill them. But once the taint is bad enough, once you're as far gone as he is, the darkspawn can't sense you as a Warden anymore. They think you're one of them, even more 'one of them' than a ghoul, and so they leave you alone. That's why they haven't killed Riordan."

The first observation came from Carver. "That's a pretty high price."

"It is," said Bethany. Then her eyes swept over the dank, likely tainted underground lake and the equally as dark and tainted surroundings. When her gaze returned to the ill-defined path ahead of them, it was distant. Like the other Wardens, she saw the fate that awaited her in the dark, in places much like this one. She tread on the ashes of her own pyre, even as she lived. "It is," she said again, in a plaintive whisper drowned out by the crunch of dirt under their boots.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"'Speak only the word; sing only the Chant.

Then the Golden City is thine,' spoke Andraste."

—_Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Malcolm**

As they walked, silence clung to them like the green mist hugged the top of the murky underground lake. There was the scuff and scrape of boots on dirt and stone, thuds from staves used as walking sticks, the occasional unintelligible mutter from Anders, the creak of leather as gloved hands adjusted grips on swords. As they started up the tower, the mist dispersed, as did the quiet.

"That Warden, Riordan," said Sebastian. "You knew him."

It was a question hidden in a statement. The question wasn't if they'd known Riordan—that was obviously true—but asking for an explanation of how. Malcolm played ignorant of the actual, but unasked, question.

"Yes, some of us did." It failed to explain the complex relationship every Warden from the Blight had shared with the man. Even Wardens who'd served immediately post-Blight had been recipients of his sometimes underhanded, yet fair guidance. Riordan had been remarkably even-keeled, his calm temperament well suited to leading and teaching a group of rather young Wardens. Depending on the Warden, he'd been the teasing but wise elder brother, or a caring but demanding father figure. Losing him to his Calling had hurt them all, even though they'd known he needed peace from the nightmares, the corruption spreading through his skin and body, and the ceaseless call of the Old Gods. It was the knowledge that Riordan would gain his peace that gave the rest of the Wardens the ability to accept watching him part ways from them in the Deep Roads, knowing it was the last time they'd ever see him.

Except it hadn't been.

Malcolm didn't feel inclined to give Sebastian further information. Not because he didn't feel like talking about it, but because Sebastian wouldn't understand. He'd try, and while Malcolm knew the other man's attempts at easing others' pain were sincere, unless he was a Warden, he'd never truly understand in the deepest parts of his soul. And for that, Malcolm was grateful.

When it became obvious that none of the Wardens would provide more details, Sebastian cleared his throat, an attempt at dislodging a discomfort that refused to leave. "I am… sorry."

"So are we," said Líadan.

Malcolm didn't like how shaken she sounded, but there wasn't much he could do in everyone else's presence. She'd resent it, and he'd agree with her. The most he attempted was a reassuring look now and then. They'd been together long enough to recognize support, even if it was silent. Talking would come later, once the mission was done and they were safely on their way home.

Then again, the long trip up the tower's stairs might kill him before they could even get that far. It felt like the Tower of Ishal, minus the adrenaline rush that'd propelled him and Alistair up the staircases with barely a hint of exhaustion. Back then, they'd had the pressure of armies relying on them, a half-brother who'd gone along with a misguided battle strategy, and the presence of countless darkspawn. Besides the seemingly endless number of stairs set within a tower, the only other point of commonality was the mass of darkspawn that teemed everywhere—so many that by the time they could sense a darkspawn, they were looking at it.

Which was how they were taken entirely by surprise when a massive genlock burst through an archway, an equally massive shield covered with spikes held in front of him. It bowled over Sigrun and then barreled into Sebastian, one of the spikes spearing him in the thigh before it flung him backwards. Malcolm shouted for Anders to help as Marian gasped, while Varric hurled particularly inventive insults at the darkspawn. Sigrun regained her footing as Malcolm got the genlock's attention and drew it off. Unlike the archers, he had a shield to match the darkspawn's—granted, it wasn't nearly as massive—and stood a far better chance at blocking the spikes.

As he pushed against the genlock's shield, dents forming in his own dwarven-forged shield that he prayed would hold up to their legendary standards, he vaguely heard shouting from behind him. The words were hard to make out, and all he got was 'I will' and 'controlled.' But he wasn't given long to think about it as the genlock redoubled its efforts, the renewed clash of shields sending prickles of sharp cold running through Malcolm's arm and shoulder. If he insisted on continuing to go toe-to-toe with the huge genlock for much longer, they would go numb, and be in a lot more trouble. Another swing from the genlock's shield brought its face so close that the cloying rot of its breath nearly knocked him down as effectively as a well-placed blow. It was close enough that Malcolm realized that he'd never noticed before that darkspawn did actually sweat.

"Down you go!" Sigrun said from above him, where she was perched on the genlock's shoulders, her axes buried in each side of its neck. "You might want to move," she said to Malcolm as the genlock tipped forward, shield sliding from its hands as it went through its death throes. "Also, I think there's an emissary coming through. Felt magic. Made my skin itch. Can't imagine what it'd do to you surfacers." Then she continued riding on the genlock's shoulders as it fell.

Malcolm was starting to suspect Sigrun was showing off. Not that he'd call her on it, since she'd saved their collective asses too many times to count on this trip alone.

He ran ahead, his steps resembling more a complicated dance than a sprint as he dealt with poorly-trained genlocks and hurlocks in turn. Some were taken out for him, either from Liadan's arrows or Bethany's magic. He had just enough help from the other Wardens that he wondered where Carver and Fenris were. In the battles prior to this one, they'd joined in once the skirmish had advanced this far. Unable to look behind him for fear of being blindsided, he shrugged it off, managing to clear the area between him and the archway by the time the emissary slipped through. He hit the emissary with a smite, the darkspawn's eyes widening in true surprise as its magical attack sputtered and died. Then Malcolm knocked it to the ground with his shield before relieving it of the burden of being alive.

"Aw, you got to him before I did," said Sigrun.

"Be faster next time," he said to her. "Besides, you got the giant genlock."

She glanced behind them, over the trail of darkspawn bodies they'd left between them and the ranged Wardens in the rear, and over to the shield-carrying genlock. "Since when did they grow them that big?"

"No idea. And if we had any hope of finding the broodmother that spawned them, I'd say we go kill it."

"Justice! Bring back Anders!" Marian yelled.

"Shit." Malcolm turned and ran for where the rest of their group was. Fenris and Carver were holding Anders—no, Justice, judging by the bright blue glow coming from Anders' eyes and skin—barely restraining him from doing something probably awful. That also explained why they hadn't advanced to help, since they'd been too busy controlling one of their own. Bethany crouched next to Sebastian, alternating between working on his wound and glancing back at Anders.

"Your Warden abomination has ceded control," Fenris said as soon as Malcolm made eye contact. "You see for yourself how he has broken."

"I will not be controlled!" said Justice.

"You will when Carver's sitting on you," said Marian. "Now, Justice, give us our friend back. We'll keep him from doing anything stupid."

"If by stupid, you mean taking in a demon, you are too late," said Fenris.

"We'll kill him ourselves to keep him from Corypheus," Líadan said. "Like we'd do for any Warden."

Justice held her gaze for a long moment, and then Anders' body sagged as the spirit retreated. Carver and Fenris let him go, each glowering as they stepped away, while Anders crumpled to the dirt-encrusted stone. "Thank you," he said without looking up from his study of the ground.

Líadan looked at him, almost sadly, yet did not move forward to console him as she would have done years ago, before Justice. "You can thank me by not making us do it." Then she turned briefly to where Sebastian had landed and Bethany still worked on healing him. "You should go help Bethany. You're the healer. Heal."

"How's it look?" Anders asked Bethany as he slowly approached her, Sebastian, and Varric.

"He nearly suffered moral wounds," said Varric.

Marian frowned. "Don't you mean mortal?"

"No, it's Choir Boy. They're moral." Varric chuckled at his own joke as Marian rolled her eyes.

Malcolm felt a bit gleeful—only a little—that Sebastian had suffered close to the same injury he had earlier, when Sebastian hadn't warned him about the trap in time. "Maybe next time you'll stay far enough behind Sigrun so you won't get gored by a darkspawn shield," he said to Sebastian. Granted, Malcolm hadn't thought any darkspawn would be wielding a shield the size and design as the massive one that'd hit Sebastian, but still. Fair was fair. "I almost feel bad."

"Really?" asked Varric.

"No." He would've if Sebastian had been seriously wounded, but Anders didn't have the scrunch of worry he got between his eyebrows when he faced something difficult to heal. It meant Sebastian would be fine.

"In the future, I shall endeavor to stay in my place behind a Warden scout." Sebastian didn't look up when he spoke, grimacing as Anders manipulated the wound into the right alignment for best healing.

"Did you let that genlock through?" Marian asked Malcolm.

He looked at her in askance, wondering if he should feel insulted. "Of course not. I said bite his leg off, not pummel him to pieces."

She smiled. "Just checking."

Anders' magic dissipated, and he stood with a self-satisfied nod. "You'll be fine. However, if we're to fight an ancient magister with enough power to control a Warden's thoughts, I believe we all should rest for more than a few minutes."

"You'll get no argument from me." Sebastian carefully got to his feet, and then gave Anders a meaningful nod. "Thank you."

Marian watched Sebastian shuffle off to find a clear piece of ground to sit on, concern pulling her brows together despite Anders' pronouncement. Then she shook herself, as if dismissing worrisome thoughts, and looked at Malcolm. "So, why haven't the rest of you lost it?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Malcolm.

"Corypheus. Why haven't you or any of the other Wardens turned into a raving loony like Anders did? You can hear him, can't you? If you're all tainted, and Corypheus communicates through the taint, it stands to reason that you do."

"We can hear him, sister," said Bethany.

"Right! So, when can I expect the rest of you to turn on us?"

"I don't think we will," said Malcolm, wondering why he hadn't picked up on the obvious answer before. Avernus' augmented potion had to be why. Like it had practically banished the sentence of an early pyre, it seemed to also lessen the power of whatever call Corypheus possessed. So while Anders and others with the taint, like Riordan, felt compelled to answer, Malcolm and the others merely felt annoyed by Corypheus' ceaseless nattering. "It's to do with the difference in Joining potions. There's an augmented one now, which lessens the nastier effects of being a Warden. It all still applies, but over a longer time period. Every Warden here except for Anders has had the augmented potion."

"Did you not offer it to him any of the times you've been to Kirkwall?" asked Marian.

"They did," said Anders. "I wasn't sure how it would affect Justice, so I turned it down."

"To your detriment," said Fenris.

Anders didn't back down. "I've done and not done many things to my detriment. You repeatedly pointing it out won't change them."

"No, it won't."

Bethany looked between Anders and Fenris, and then to her sister, wordlessly telling her to change the subject.

Marian caught the message. "I did notice that you Wardens managed the darkspawn well without our help," she said to no one and everyone at the same time.

"Could be because it's our job," said Sigrun. "Killing darkspawn."

Carver, who had been staring down the short corridor and into the larger room laden with darkspawn corpses, joined the conversation. "You're a lot more efficient at it than I'd thought. I never saw the Wardens fight at Ostagar. They were up with the King, and we all know how that went."

"Poorly." Malcolm, finished with cleaning his sword and shield, settled on a broken wall and dug out his waterskin, along with the flatbread they'd cooked up the night before. "Well, unless you were one of the darkspawn. Then the battle went rather well, in retrospect. Killed the Wardens and the King in one fell swoop." He took a large bite of the bread to avoid mentioning anything else involving swooping, because he really didn't want to tell that story about Alistair, ever.

As soon as Malcolm had swallowed the bread, Carver asked, "Did you know him?"

"Him, who?"

"The King. Cailan, I mean. He was your brother."

"Half-brother. And no, I didn't know him. I just knew _of_ him."

"But he must've known about you, to send you and Alistair up that tower instead of with the rest of the Wardens."

"Yes, his one shining moment of intelligence pulled from a mind about as smart as a sack of hammers. If he really had been smart, he wouldn't have been part of the lead charge, and definitely not with the sodding Wardens. We won't even get into how poor of a plan the entire battle was, what with not knowing how many darkspawn there really were until it became astonishingly clear that there was no sodding end to them. No, my glory-blinded half-brother was too determined to become like the legends of old to take the idea that his army was absolutely screwed as a serious outcome." He had more. He could honestly go on for hours, if ever given the chance, but Líadan had put a hand on his forearm, effectively reminding him that there was a time and a place for ranting about Cailan, and the present was definitely not either one.

"Whoa, don't hold back or anything," said Varric.

"Sorry, sore spot." He took a swallow of water that'd long gone warm, but at least it wasn't tainted. It was the little things.

"Really? I never would have guessed."

Malcolm would've continued to chat with Varric, because it was admittedly fun, but duty summoned him to his feet. He did groan, already weary of fighting, if not in body, definitely in mind. He dropped his waterskin, put on his helm, and picked up his sword and shield on the way to standing. The other Wardens in the group were doing the same, food and water set aside in favor of weapons as they rose to meet the renewed darkspawn attack. Really, it was just like the Deep Roads.

"Company, I take it?" asked Varric.

"And not the good kind," said Sigrun.

"Maker," said Carver. "Do they ever stop?"

"No," said Líadan. "Still up for clearing out the Deep Roads for us?"

He shook out his arms and grabbed his greatsword. "Let's just pretend I never made any of those cracks."

Bethany raised an eyebrow at him. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"I say we keep this version of Junior," said Varric.

"Fine with me," Malcolm said as he walked by them, the other Wardens following. The rest formed up, with Marian advancing forward enough to take up a spot just behind Malcolm, alongside Fenris and Carver. Apparently, they weren't willing to let the Wardens take out the darkspawn by themselves this time. But by then, feeling the individual tainted bodies approaching them, Malcolm had realized they weren't actually darkspawn, not unless darkspawn had changed significantly. While he didn't relax his guard, he didn't feel as compelled to remind the non-Wardens to stand back.

Four Grey Wardens stepped through the archway, a smallish party for an extended trip in the Deep Roads. A mage had the lead, a human woman who looked to be close to Riordan's age when he'd gone on his Calling. She also matched the description Hildur had given, though Hildur had left out the part about Janeka being angry. Then again, the Deep Roads could do that to a person. Sigrun had thus far proved to be the only exception.

The mage halted and narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing down here?"

"Looking for you, actually," said Malcolm. He partly lowered his shield and relaxed his sword hand, but didn't put his weapons away. Determined Wardens were often intractable, and he couldn't be sure if Janeka had taken the altered Joining potion or not. For all he knew, it could've been Corypheus speaking through her. "So we could stop you from doing something stupid, like setting Corypheus free."

She scowled. "It is not stupid. I've studied notes from the early Wardens, and they were wrong. Whatever your superiors have told you, Corypheus isn't a threat—he's our greatest opportunity. His magic can be harnessed, and I know how to do it."

"Sure you do."

"This is a chance I will not see squandered, especially not by a Warden so young in the Order. Either join me or run back to your Commander."

He reminded himself not to let her digs get to him. He'd fought in a Blight, and she hadn't. "Nope, we've got other things to do down here, like killing Corypheus. Besides, no one deals with darkspawn. I bet you can guess why."

Janeka didn't bother hiding her snarl of frustration. "It isn't—"

"Because it's stupid," said Malcolm.

She massaged her forehead with her fingers before trying another method of persuasion. "Perhaps you need to gain some perspective. Harnessing Corypheus could mean an end to Blights. An end! How many died in Ferelden alone?"

"Lots." Malcolm did his best not to take her comments personally. She couldn't know he and Líadan had fought in the last Blight. Easily rectified. "I know this because I saw a lot of them, which gives me a pretty good reason for not even attempting to make a deal with any darkspawn. Because they're darkspawn."

Janeka tightened her grip on her stave. "You claim to have fought in the Blight? Do not think me foolish."

"Too late," said Marian.

She went ignored. "I am not going into this blind. I have a spell that can bind Corypheus to my will."

Anders laughed. "Right, and I've got a bridge to Kinloch Hold to sell you."

"They rebuilt it, actually," Sigrun said. "I saw it when I was out there with Hildur. Nice bridge."

"I do not have time for your frivolities," said Janeka. "If you seek hinder us, if you seek to kill Corypheus, we will not hesitate to kill you."

Behind her, the other three Wardens were readying weapons, and Malcolm heard the people behind him doing the same. He smiled and raised his sword and shield. "I'm all about the hindering."

"Princeling! You couldn't even consult the rest of us?" asked Varric.

"When did you become a Warden?" asked Líadan.

"Point taken."

"The magister must die," said Fenris.

"I agree," said Carver.

Malcolm knocked his sword into his shield, indicating his readiness. "Come on, then," he said to Janeka. "We haven't got all day. Magisters to kill and all."

"_Creators_," Líadan said under her breath. "They're Wardens, not bandits, in case you forgot. Not easy to fight."

It wasn't even partway through the fight when Malcolm was ready to concede Líadan's point. He'd never really fought other Wardens outside the sparring ring, and hadn't really comprehended how _hard_ they were to defeat, especially veterans like their opponents. Like him and his fellow friendly Wardens, they never seemed to wear down, every hit jarred barely less than a Qunari, and the magic nipped and stung. He'd lost count of the number of arrows he'd deflected. The sneaky fellow had scared the daylights out of him when he'd disappeared and reappeared out of _nowhere_. His shoulder ached from the blows he'd blocked from the burly Warden's two-handed war hammer. An arrow hit Carver on the inner portion of his elbow, piercing just far enough into the brigandine that it hit flesh. Even though it'd been shallow enough a hit that Carver literally shook the arrow from his arm, he hadn't stopped bitching about it. At least Sigrun and Varric's cursing had more merit—they kept getting tripped up by the darkspawn bodies from the earlier skirmish.

Malcolm also discovered that Warden mages regenerated their mana a lot faster than darkspawn emissaries. The only person he'd ever witnessed replenishing their mana quicker than Janeka had to be Morrigan. Though, Bethany looked more than a little ragged, which to Malcolm pointed more toward Janeka having stolen mana rather than drawing on the Fade, herself. Either way, he went to smite her again, only to get bashed in the face by the hilt of a dagger the moment he opened his arms. While the blow didn't do much damage, thanks to his helm, it did send him stumbling backward, his shield thrown up in front of him. Sigrun rolled under the other Warden's guard and hamstringed him as he advanced on Malcolm.

When he started swatting at the nuisance as his legs buckled from under him, two separate arrows and a crossbow bolt hit him, putting him down for good.

"That's one!" shouted Varric.

"I will not allow another." Janeka had already jammed a dagger through her palm before she spoke, and her spell was cast before the others even realized she'd used blood magic. Then it didn't matter as much that she had, because she'd called on the help of four revenants to replace the lone Warden of hers they'd managed to take down.

It seemed more than a little unfair.

"This would be the bad side of blood magic," Malcolm said after he managed to smite one of them. He wondered if he should just run up and smack one of the others with his shield right when it put down its sword. It'd be in the middle of casting, so he'd stand a chance.

"There's a good side?" asked Anders.

"Daisy," said Varric.

Fenris leapt forward and relieved the first revenant of its head, which left three more revenants, plus the other three Wardens.

"Go ahead," Malcolm said over his shoulder as he edged toward one of the revenants. "Argue with that one. I dare you."

"Right, antagonize the abomination," said Marian. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Not anymore. Haven't for years." They'd been some good years, admittedly. He was happy enough to have lived to experience them.

"But you had one?"

"I got better."

"How?"

Malcolm fended off a rather quick swing from the burly Warden, which sent him wildly off his chosen course of dealing with a revenant. "Riordan, coincidentally. Knocked some sense into my bleak, addled head during the Blight."

"Literally?" asked Varric.

He shrugged. "Close enough."

"Princess," Varric said to Líadan, "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there's something seriously wrong with your husband's head."

"I've been saying that for years," she replied.

"Just once, a little solidarity would be nice," said Malcolm.

He was pretty sure he could hear the smile in her tone, even though he couldn't see to confirm it. "There was," she said. "I had solidarity with Varric. He's very astute, you know."

"Are you heroes of the Blight? Truly?" Janeka shouted over to them from where she'd taken up casting near a wall.

"You've got two of them standing—well, Princeling is ducking at the moment—right here," said Varric. "Why? You have a change of heart?"

"Possibly. If two who have recently fought an archdemon and won believe Corypheus offers no hope that he could provide the means to an end of Blights, then perhaps I am not as certain as I once was."

Malcolm, who was currently shoving all his weight into his shield, which was subsequently pushing against a revenant's shield, which was surprisingly stable and not going anywhere anytime soon, felt like the others could stop their chatting and get around to some sort of peace accord, even though she'd capitulated suspiciously fast. "Feel free to call off your revenants," he said to them. "Sooner the better." He glanced over at Janeka long enough to see her signal her remaining Wardens, and they turned their fight onto the revenants.

Energy ripped apart the very air, and Malcolm turned just enough to see Justice's blue light shining from Anders' eyes. For once, Malcolm didn't object, because Justice could deal some serious damage to the revenants, more than Anders could—more than any of them put together, really.

Except that Justice didn't go after the revenants, even as they continued to pummel members of their party.

"You will not be allowed to betray us!" Justice declared, and then slammed magic into Janeka's chest, its momentum alone throwing her into the wall at her back, while the magic itself crackled through her body until she slumped lifelessly to the ground. "Your blood magic will do evil no longer."

The only upside to Justice's interference was Fenris killing one of the revenants while it was distracted by Justice.

"I think we've a problem with your abomination," said one of Janeka's Wardens.

"Heroes of the Blight or not, after that, I'm ripping out your friend's innards," said the other. "Janeka and I had the same Joining."

"Shit," said Marian.

At the same time, Carver said, "Feel free. It'll save us the effort."

Even with Janeka and two of the revenants gone, the fight got nastier. Unless they were using a ranged weapon, the moment any of them took their attention away from the revenants to fend off one of Janeka's Wardens, one or both of the revenants used their incredibly strong pull ability. Malcolm managed to save himself by grabbing onto the archer Warden's leg, and then only narrowly avoided losing a hand by rolling toward Justice. Fenris blurred in and out of reach, while Marian anchored herself to Carver.

"You know, Blondie," Varric said as he dodged the burly Warden's sword, "when you get the chance to avoid a fight with Grey Wardens, most people take it, because they're really hard to kill. I don't even have to make up those parts of my stories."

"They aided a blood mage. They could be her thralls. They must not be allowed to further the blood mage's agenda."

"Her agenda was to _help_ us," said Malcolm.

"Her turnaround could not be trusted."

"So you'll do what? Kill all those you believe are unjust and leave the Maker to sort them out?"

"Yes."

"Do you even realize how shortsighted that is?"

"Argue later," said Líadan.

One revenant caught the burly Warden unawares, and used his shield to crush his chest once he dragged him close enough. It seemed to feed on the kill, its next pull twice as strong as any of the ones before it. Sebastian dodged an arrow from Janeka's lone remaining Warden, who was practically hugging the walls of the room. His dodge made him bump into Bethany, who tumbled forward into the revenant's draw. It pulled her into the range of its weapons before anyone could react fast enough, hitting her legs with its heavy shield as she stabbed any part of the revenant she could reach with the bladed end of her stave. While that revenant wore down and started to topple, the other moved to take the advantage.

"Bethany!" Both Marian and Carver bolted forward to help their sister. Carver cleaved the wandering revenant in two on his way to free his twin. When the last of Janeka's Wardens turned to see what was going on, Fenris ghosted over and quickly dispatched him.

"Begone from this realm!" As Justice bore down on the last revenant, it looked up in alarm, abandoning its bludgeoning of Bethany in favor of meeting the other Fade spirit head-on. Their magic crashed together, the crackle tingling through Malcolm's teeth. It wasn't the warm magic felt from Bethany, or the sharp magic that Marian used, nor was it the rough magic Líadan occasionally summoned, for none of them felt unsettling. There was something wrong with the magic arcing across the room, unbalanced and dangerous.

As the two Fade spirits trapped in the mortal realm fought, Marian and Carver dragged Bethany to the opposite side of the room, with Sebastian constantly apologizing for knocking her down, even as he shot arrows at the revenant. Fenris had fallen slack against the wall, his lyrium brands blazing so brightly they almost burned.

The revenant bowed under the weight of Justice's attack, and his fate was sealed once arrows and bolts continued to find gaps in his armor, and Malcolm's sword and Sigrun's axes sliced through what was left. It tumbled over and then disappeared, leaving only its armor and the scent of burned lyrium behind.

But Justice didn't leave. He stood in the middle of the room, glowing and useless, while Bethany grimaced her way through the pain from her mangled legs, while Fenris couldn't seem to muster up enough energy to even stand, while everyone else had cuts and scratches and bruises and punctures that drained them, little by little. Sodding Justice, who'd decided without anyone else's input that they should fight everything instead of accepting allies where they could find them, no matter that they used blood magic or whatever else Justice deemed unworthy. Meanwhile, the longer he stood there, all mighty and powerful and righteous in his justice, the more the rest of them suffered.

"Justice," said Malcolm, "can you heal?"

Varric snorted. "Now _that's_ a question."

"I cannot," said Justice.

"Would you mind giving us Anders back, then? Because, in case you forgot, he can heal, unlike you. And since you're the one who made us fight the other Wardens, the least you can do is let the healer heal our wounds."

"That… would be just." The Fade's light vanished from the room, leaving Anders in control of his body once more. "Malcolm, could you please stop mouthing off to the easily irritated spirit? I don't know if you've noticed, but he doesn't like you."

"I don't like him, either."

Anders sighed as he went to help Bethany. "How are your legs?" he asked as he knelt beside her.

"Not as crushed as I thought they'd be," she said, sounding in far better spirits than anyone could have expected.

"I'll get them un-crushed as soon as I can, then." Anders went to work, and if he noticed the glowers sent his way from Carver and Fenris, he didn't acknowledge them. Once he was done, they all rested for a while, regaining whatever energy they'd lost in the successive battles, and Bethany tested the soundness of her freshly-healed legs. On one trip around the room, she snatched up her stave from near the revenant's armor, and then kicked its helm across the room for good measure.

Malcolm chuckled at the satisfied expression on Bethany's face, and then Marian's comment about Anders having done a fine healing job judging by the strength of the kick. With Bethany up and sure-footed once more, they were ready to continue onward and get the mission done and over with. Sigrun led the group, with Sebastian following a decent distance behind her. Marian brought up the rear, taking advantage of the opportunity to speak with Anders. Malcolm, who'd been trailing the pack as he checked over the room one last time, saw Marian push Anders against the wall. The amusement that'd shown on her face earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, determined anger.

"You tell Justice, right now, that if he pops out again today, I'll kill him. Unless we're in dire need of his particular abilities—and one of us will let you know when and if that occurs—he needs to let you stay in control. _You_ need to stay in control. We need our friend, the healer. Not some Fade spirit who gives approximately no shits about our lives."

"He does, actually," Anders said quietly. "Why do you think he hasn't killed Merrill, even though she's a blood mage? Why do you think he helped in the Fade? Even as misguided as he was, what do you think drove him to kill Janeka? He wasn't just protecting himself or the world at large—he was protecting his friends. The problem is that he goes beyond that once he's out, turning from Justice to Vengeance, and it gets… bloody, afterwards."

Marian shoved him one last time, unmoved by Anders' explanation. "Keep him contained, Anders. I don't want to kill you or run you off. I don't." Then she spun on her heel and stalked away to catch up with the others.

Anders sighed and followed, raising an eyebrow at Malcolm as he approached. Then the two of them took the rear guard together. "She doesn't believe me," Anders said after a few steps.

"In her position, would you?"

"No, of course not. But it isn't exactly fun from my point of view. Everyone's acting like they've lost their friend, while all along, I'm standing right here."

"The problem is that the person standing there isn't always you. And while I can see Justice also viewing us as friends, he's like a normally nice friend who turns nasty and violent when he's drinking, except we can't see the drinking, so we never know who to expect."

"And the whole time, I'm watching him be an utter ass, and I can't do anything about it."

"Either way, keep him under wraps. I don't think Marian was kidding."

"She wasn't." When he said it, Anders almost sounded relieved.

Nothing down in this Warden prison felt _right_. Nothing was as it seemed, Corypheus wouldn't stop shouting about being able to control them—patently a lie, since they'd yet to fall under his control—Anders was losing himself, people had gotten hurt, they'd had to fight and kill other Wardens, and then there was Riordan.

He visited them again, stepping out of the deeper shadows as they exited at the top of the infernal tower, where the sky was finally visible. The lot of them scowled at realizing that night had fallen already, the moon high on the horizon, the chill of the wind welcome over the sweat and thirst from their journey up all those stairs. Beyond that, beyond the stolen day behind them, beyond the stolen death of a former mentor, beyond harsh breathing and cursing and tiredness so deep that none of them believed they'd find rest again, the call from the sarcophagus beyond the bridge in front of them howled. Every Warden stared at it, shocked at the strength of it, the loudness of it, and for those who had fought the Archdemon in the last Blight, how discordant it was.

The Archdemon's call had possessed a certain amount of musicality. While alarming, actually hearing the call had never been unpleasant to the ears, as it were. The same did not apply to Corypheus. It didn't help that he was also incredibly insulting, and if he called Malcolm a worm one more time, he'd kill him. He'd kill him even if he hadn't been planning on it in the first place. Now that he could see the sarcophagus, Malcolm did feel the first hints of apprehension. It was easy enough not to think about the difficulty of their task when they weren't directly faced with it.

They were no longer afforded that option.

When he looked at Riordan, he could see no trace of the Warden he'd known. He couldn't feel anything beyond darkspawn from him.

Which was exactly what he was. Malcolm straightened, realizing that Riordan wasn't an ally, not like he'd been. Like Janeka, more than Janeka, he was being influenced by Corypheus. Riordan's—the darkspawn's—eyes widened in realization as Malcolm stared at him. Then the ghoul reached over, snatched the stave Marian had brought with her for breaking the seals, and bolted for the sarcophagus. Marian shouted and sprinted after him, sword out and cursing as she informed him that he'd stolen her father's staff, and she'd be damned if she'd let him keep it.

The rest gave chase, barely noticing the bronze griffon statues as they ran across the ancient bridge, trying to ignore the scream that the calling had become. Inside the rotunda, Marian grappled with Riordan, the stave between them as they both refused to let go. Neither archer had the confidence of hitting a proper shot on Riordan, for the fight's movement was too unpredictable. They twisted the stave between them and tried to fully wrestle its grip from the other. The struggle brought them closer to the sarcophagus, Marian cursing the entire way, and Riordan working with silent determination. A few steps from the sarcophagus, Riordan spun and let go, which sent Marian crashing into it. She managed to keep her head from smacking hard into the sarcophagus' lid, but as she twisted to regain her feet and locate Riordan, her cheek and ear scraped along the stone.

Within seconds, where Riordan had gone became the least of their worries. He was a ghoul, not a magister. The true threat was in the opening sarcophagus.

As Marian tumbled down from it, the lid crumbled inward before the pieces were blown outward. The air from the blast knocked each of them to the ground. As they all got to their feet, bruises refreshed and aches awakened, what Malcolm assumed to be Corypheus literally rose out of the open sarcophagus. He looked familiar. He looked like the Architect, like Hildur had said he might. The Architect was an oddity of a darkspawn, powerful and sentient, yet stupid enough to wake an Old God and believe he wouldn't taint him in the process. In the end, he'd started the Fifth Blight.

From what Malcolm was starting to piece together, this particular magister had helped start the _First_ Blight.

"Be this some dream I wake from?" the magister asked as he regarded them with eyes that were both betrayed and menacing. The mere potential of his power throbbed in the air around them and turned the crisp night to stifling. And yet, his utter bewilderment was almost endearing.

"You're a darkspawn," Marian said to it as she hefted her sword. The stave had been passed off to Bethany. "Darkspawn. You spread the blight. Ring a bell?"

"And I thought you were bad," Líadan said to Malcolm.

Bethany sighed. "Meet my sister."

The magister's cry of dismay as he raised his arms to the sky and beseeched Dumat helped further the believability of his almost tragic plight. "The city, it was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be ours!" An arcane energy shield shimmered around Corypheus as he lamented at being cursed and abandoned.

It meant they had to wait.

It was ridiculous, really, and Malcolm knew that if he told the story to anyone other than someone who'd been here to see it, they wouldn't believe him. He certainly wouldn't.

"Is that the Architect?" Anders asked as Corypheus continued his railing.

"No, it's not," said Malcolm. "The Architect was creepy. This guy is irritating."

Sigrun frowned. "I'm not sure. He's almost like a lost puppy. Except a puppy that has acolytes and slaves."

"That would be a Tevinter puppy," said Anders.

"Or a mabari with the finest of pedigrees, maybe," said Malcolm.

"Possibly the Orlesian Empress's puppy," said Marian. "I could see that."

"How can you talk about puppies at a time like this?" asked Bethany.

Malcolm glanced between her and Corypheus, the true danger the magister presented not really having sunk in until they'd all felt what power the creature pulled from the Fade. "It's what's keeping me from crying and running away in sheer terror. I'm starting to wonder if the Wardens kept this guy sealed up for two thousand years instead of just killing him because they _couldn't kill him_. And we're going to have to kill him. Or try to." He frowned at the rising fear. "I'm going to keep thinking about puppies."

"Perhaps it would help to think of puppies as his weakness," said Sebastian. "After all, the Maker's light can only shine so far."

"Choir Boy, did you just crack a joke?" asked Varric.

The arcane energy dissipated, and then Corypheus whipped around, the betrayal vanished, the confusion lifted, and he bore down on them. "I am an acolyte of Dumat. You cannot stop me. If I cannot be brought to the light with you, I will gain it through you!"

They ran, scattering to hide behind griffon statues and low walls as the magister rose higher in the air and formed a burning white ball of arcane energy between his hands. Malcolm had no idea what kind of magic it was, other than it would probably cause a great deal of pain if it hit any of them. He traded a look with Carver, who crouched behind a statue one bay over from where Malcolm hid with Líadan and Anders. The look communicated enough that they'd smite the bastard and take it from there.

They did. They brought bolts of righteous spirit energy down from the sky, and the magister _laughed_ at them. "Dumat has granted me his powers, worms," said Corypheus. "You cannot take them from me."

"It seems Choir Boy might've been more right than he thought," Varric called out from the bay to Malcolm's right.

"Again," Carver said to Malcolm. Then he shouted to Sebastian, "Use those fancy Andraste's arrows that my sister picked up for you last month. Hopefully that gold wasn't a waste."

The smites hit Corypheus, and this time his shield flickered just long enough for Sebastian's shot to hit the magister. Then the magical defense dropped entirely, forcing Corypheus to walk on the ground. Malcolm, Carver, Fenris, Marian, and Sigrun dashed from their hiding spots, swords and axes out. Arrows rushed through the air from Líadan and Sebastian. Some were plucked from flight by the magister's weakened magic, others hit invisible barriers he'd put up, and a few managed to hit him. Corypheus flicked his wrist, and the earth burst from the ground, forming pillars directly in front of Malcolm and Carver. With no time to swerve, the pillars knocked them on their asses as the others continued onward.

Sigrun leapt and got part of an axe into Corypheus' back before she was tossed off. She curled up to absorb the impact and rolled away to recover after she hit the floor. Jaw clenched and eyes burning with a deep hatred Malcolm had never seen before in any mortal, Fenris marched right for the magister, with Marian directly behind him. Right as they both swung, Corypheus' magic returned in full, and the arcane wall popped into existence. Its return flung Fenris and Marian nearly as far back as the earthen pillars that had stopped Malcolm and Carver.

Then came the fire. The only sign of what was to happen was a faint glow on Corypheus' palms, and then the entire room filled with flames. Swirling vortexes danced through the air, and the warriors caught out between the alcoves and the sarcophagus were forced to dance along with them or risk being burned. As it was, they couldn't escape it entirely, the stones burning at the soles of their boots, the lashing tendrils of fire leaving long scorch marks on their armor as they darted away, the padding under their armor sodden with sweat leeched out by the rising heat.

Carver stopped behind one of the pillars that'd taken him and Malcolm out earlier, pausing just long enough to hit Corypheus with a Silence. While it wasn't much, it was enough for the flames to gutter out, and the smites he and Malcolm immediately sent Corypheus' way brought the shield down again.

It went like that for a while, getting tiny hits on Corypheus, wearing him down so slowly that they wondered if they'd wear down first. It had been a long day, a long slog through a Deep Roads prison, and this magister seemed to be able to draw the entire Fade itself to fuel his spells.

Bethany had managed to use a spell on Corypheus that had some degree of effect, something that slowed him down, and almost pulled him to where she wanted him. It proved a good distraction, but had the unfortunate side effect of drawing a lot of Corypheus' attention. Carver played the shield, and Fenris along with him, keeping the majority of the magister's attacks from hitting the less-armored mage. Malcolm kept himself between the other ranged fighters and the magister, in the event that Corypheus had a sudden change of heart in targets. Even then, things looked decidedly not good—enough that Malcolm started to question having been sent on the mission at all.

"Just in case we die," said Líadan, who appeared to be having thoughts along the same lines as he was having, "I think Ava has the Gift."

His chest constricted and his throat burned, and he wasn't sure if it was from exhaustion, singeing from the flames, or what he'd just heard. "You're telling me this _now_?"

"I didn't want to believe it."

Malcolm glanced over at her. Líadan's concentration hadn't wavered, and she was still sending arrows Corypheus' way, to either harm him or to at least draw some of his ire from Bethany. Even Sebastian paused for an instant to give Líadan an incredulous look before he returned to his own bow. Malcolm shook his head and checked to make sure he was still in position to intercept Corypheus. "How exactly did you come into this magical knowledge?"

"Please don't use puns like that ever again," said Varric. "They don't suit you."

"Cáel had been tormenting her all day," said Líadan. "It took her until evening, but she retaliated. Lost her temper and pushed him with a little extra… I'm sure it was lightning, in retrospect. She also may have lit his shoes on fire, but Cáel wouldn't say either way, and disposed of the evidence."

He grasped at the idea that she was trying to calm his mind by distracting him. "You're serious?"

"If any time was a time to be serious, it's now. So, yes."

"I can't believe you're having this incredibly serious conversation _right now_ in the _middle of a battle_," said Marian. "Even I have standards."

"I'm just pissed that I can't take notes," said Varric.

Malcolm ignored them. "I honestly thought it would be Cáel."

"I thought it would be both of them."

"Could we concentrate more on the killing of the powerful darkspawn, please?" asked Anders.

"That must be Justice," said Varric. "He never likes gossip."

"I _am_ proud that she stood up to her brother, even if it was magic," said Líadan.

"I'm surprised she didn't pop him sooner," said Malcolm. "I would've expected a fist, though. Maybe a good kick. That'll teach him, I suppose. Maybe." He thought about their son's temperament, and changed his mind. "Eh, probably not."

"Again," said Anders, "I suggest we get back to killing the ancient magister."

"Oh," said Marian, drawing out the word as she did, "you sound like Fenris."

Anders straightened in outrage, but kept his lean body behind a statue, even as he maintained healing auras around Bethany, Fenris, and Carver. "I did no—all right, that did sound like him."

Bethany let loose a flurry of spells, one right after another, slowing Corypheus so much that he practically went still, then pulled him closer before using her magic to pick him up and slam him into the ground.

"Oh! I like that one!" said Marian, who proceeded to use the same spell, bouncing Corypheus twice for good measure. Malcolm and Carver took the opportunity to throw more smites his way, even as Corypheus drew earth up around him in a ring, walling them out. Knowing they had the advantage, they ran for the earthen ring, only to find it empty.

"That's cheating," said Sigrun. "You can't just disappear in the middle of combat."

"You do it all the time," said Líadan.

"Yeah, but mages aren't supposed to. Like I said, cheating."

A rumble sounded above them. Fog had gathered below the ceiling, churning as it transformed into the dark clouds of an impending storm. Hairs on any exposed skin stood on end as the air charged with the promise of lightning. A downdraft of chilled air swept over them, and crackling could be heard in the hidden depths of the clouds.

"Hide," said Anders. "Hide, now. Get under anything you can. If you've got a helm and are stupidly not wearing it, put it on. Either get cozy with Malcolm or get as close to me, Marian, or Bethany as you can. This'll hurt, no two ways about it."

Corypheus laughed from where he'd appeared, hovering over his sarcophagus.

Hail plummeted from the clouds, hail in the form of icy spears, sending the group scrambling for cover. Malcolm held his shield over his head, the spears adding more dents to it, and it'd already taken a beating over the course of the day. Líadan kept close, and Sigrun squeezed in as much as she could. Marian threw out an arcane shield, as did Anders and Bethany. Fenris sprinted for Bethany's shield, grimacing as one spear grazed his back. Another went through his heel, sending him sprawling before he could get to cover. Sebastian ran from Anders' protection, the hail leaving pits and dents in his armor as he dragged Fenris into Anders' shield. A spike went through the gap between Carver's gorget and spaulder, ignoring the brigandine and driving into his shoulder as he tumbled into the safety of Marian's arcane shield. Varric pulled Carver's leg in before it could get pinned.

Marian swore as she bent to examine her brother's wound.

"I'm fine," said Carver.

She rolled her eyes. "You're so full of shit. Have you looked at your shoulder?"

"Rather not."

Malcolm, Líadan, and Sigrun ducked into Bethany's area of protection, breathing heavily. Though Malcolm's back hurt where he'd been hit by hail, he was grateful that his armor had prevented him from being run through. He'd take bruises over being skewered any day. Marian had removed Carver's helm in order to get a better look at him, and Carver's skin was ashen. Anders couldn't sustain his shield within Marian's—Malcolm recalled a mage explaining to him that arcane shields touching could result in very bad things—but even the short gap between his and hers could mean grievous injury for the unarmored mage. The same went for Bethany, which meant neither of the mages with good healing skills could help Carver. Marian could heal, but hers would be more to stabilize with a wound like Carver had. They'd be lucky to get him patched up, much less get him able to summon a smite.

Marian paused her study of Carver's injury to look over at Anders. "Hey, Anders?"

"Yes?"

"I think it would be all right if Justice came out to play with Corypheus. And by 'play,' I mean kill him."

"He's been suggesting the same."

"Go for it," she said. "Please."

Anders walked as close to Marian as possible, and then Sebastian helped Fenris stand, Fenris leaning on him heavily in order to keep his heel off the ground, and the two of them covered the few short steps to Marian's arcane shield. Fenris avoided further injury, but a spike of ice went through the brigandine of Sebastian's unarmored arm. His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth in pain, but impressively did not swear.

Once Anders' shield was free of others, he started for Corypheus. The shimmering of the shield faded away, yet the ice spikes parted around him like a river would around a rock. The blue light from his eyes and skin flickered dangerously in the dim light of the conjured storm. "Enough," he said, his voice rife with the power of Justice's absolute confidence in what was right. "Your kind has done enough. You engaged in slavery. You engaged in blood magic. You engaged in the oppression of others. You desire to do the same again in this realm. I will not allow it."

Corypheus stared at the upstart victim. "What god be you to declare such?"

"I am Justice."

"Dumat—"

Corypheus never had a chance for a final appeal to his own patron god. Justice reached out, grabbed Corypheus' foot and plucked him from above. He slowly dragged him to his level, ankle to knee, from knee to grasping his robes, and then held him by the neck in front of him.

"Justice will not be denied." Without looking, Justice snatched a spike of ice in mid-plunge, and then drove it up through Corypheus' mouth and into his head before tossing him down like a sack of garbage.

The storm dissipated immediately, leaving a clear night with a nearly full moon outside the walls of the topmost room. Inside the mind of each Warden, the call fell silent.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"What hath man's sin wrought?"

—_Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Malcolm**

Until it was gone, Malcolm hadn't realized how much Corypheus' call had been bothering him. It'd reached a dreadful crescendo right before the magister died, but by then it had become a rather loud background noise. Current circumstances aside, it was pleasant to be free of it.

With the storm gone, healing could be done without fear, which meant Bethany dropped her arcane shield and ran for her brother. Though Fenris and Sebastian's wounds were clearly painful, they didn't possess the same danger as Carver's did. However, it wasn't like they only had one mage capable of healing.

They just had to get Anders back, yet Justice seemed to be reveling in his victory. Hesitant to engage him lest he lash out with leftover wrath, the others cast Justice wary looks as he stood over the sarcophagus. But they desperately needed another capable healer, because Marian wasn't the greatest, and Líadan just plain could not heal. In an obvious attempt to be useful, Marian left Bethany to work on Carver, and then went to check on Fenris and Sebastian.

After only a few minutes of trying to help the wounded, Marian handed the poultice to Sebastian and stood up. Then she walked right over to Justice. "Give Anders back."

"There is more to be done in this realm."

"Not right now. People are hurt. I know you saved them, but it won't mean much if they're permanently injured or die."

"There are more important—"

"No, there aren't!" The tip of her dagger pressed against Justice's throat. "You either give Anders back to us, or I will put you down. I won't say it twice."

Anders slumped and tumbled to the ground. Justice had abandoned him so quickly that Anders wasn't given time to gain full control of his legs. "I'm sorry he—"

Marian didn't give him a chance to finish as she crouched to his level. "You don't need to apologize. I asked you to let him come out, and it was my responsibility to deal with the consequences. And I did. Lucky for us, he listened, which means now we have our friend back, who also happens to be our best healer."

He nodded and glanced around, assessing where he would be most needed.

"Come help Carver," Bethany said. "I can heal the others, but Carver will take some delicate work that you're better with."

The healers fixed up the wounded while the recovered and the mostly uninjured searched for any clues regarding Riordan's fate. The taint remained below them, a mass of darkness and darkspawn, but Malcolm couldn't feel anything separate from it that would signal Riordan.

"This place is like a Nevarran mausoleum," said Sebastian.

"Yet, it was built before there was a Nevarra," said Bethany.

Malcolm peeked over the edge of the supposed mausoleum, trying to see if maybe Riordan had jumped or fallen to his death. It was a futile effort, considering the distance to the ground, but they didn't have many places to look. Searching for Riordan also gave him something to do other than consider what Líadan had told him during the battle. The one thing he didn't feel was any animosity toward her for keeping it to herself for so long. If he were honest with himself, he'd have done the same. The threat had precipitously dangled over them for years, and while they'd been allowed to mostly ignore it for a time, the blissful quiet was clearly over. And he didn't want to think about it, because if it were true, there wasn't a solution that wouldn't end up with pain. It would be a sodding mess and he desperately hoped it wouldn't be true.

And he was thinking about it. Damn.

If it _were_ true, they at least had the means to hide it for a while without it becoming dangerous. Bethany would certainly agree to helping Ava, as would Rhian, since they both had been raised as apostates, entirely free of the Chantry. They wouldn't want to see the templars take her, either. Given what had happened with Connor during the Blight, Ava would have to be taught actual control, and not merely how to hide her magic. That particular route led to the magic festering until a demon could take easy advantage of it, and there was no way Malcolm would let a demon harm his child.

He would also not let his child harm others through a demon, but that was a possibility he never, _ever_ wanted to contemplate.

No sign of Riordan jumped out at him. No blood on the stones, nothing. Occasionally, he heard whispers, almost like echoes from Corypheus. Remnants, he supposed, maybe like how ears rang after a loud explosion.

Sigrun stepped up beside him, taking a look downward of her own. "I can take over this part," she said quietly to Malcolm.

"I've got it," he said.

"Except I know another Warden who probably isn't thrilled about you teetering on the brink of a very long way down."

And with the other anxieties that had been plaguing Líadan, it was no wonder that her fear of heights had been extended to him. "I'm an ass."

Sigrun gave him a smile. "Happy to help."

When Malcolm turned around, he saw that Marian had given up on aiding the healing, and while Anders was still working on Carver, Sebastian and Fenris were back on their feet. The three of them, along with Bethany, stood over Corypheus' body, but not in triumph—more in confusion than anything.

"What do you suppose we do with it?" asked Marian.

"Darkspawn," said Bethany. "We burn it."

Marian gave her sister a sly grin. "Why do I think you'll enjoy this part?"

"Only because he burned me enough times that he and I won't be even until he's less than ash."

Anders sat back to rest as Carver tested out his arms in various forms. He rolled his eyes once at the young templar, and then joined the others in studying Corypheus. "You know, if he really is one of the ancient magisters, then I suppose the Chantry fable is more right than I thought."

"Perhaps you mean to say that it's not a fable?" asked Sebastian.

"I'm willing to go as far as not entirely a fable."

"Take it," said Marian. "You'll get nothing better, and by the time we're back in Kirkwall, it'll be all fable to him again."

Anders stared into the flames consuming Corypheus' body. "This one might stick a while, given the very tangible evidence."

Sebastian seemed troubled as the magister's corpse continued to burn in front of them. "Do you think something should be said?"

"Good riddance," said Fenris.

No one disagreed.

Then Fenris started for the bridge. When no one followed him, he asked, "Are we expecting to spend the night in this place? I would rather not."

"Much as I agree with you, without any rest, I'm not sure we could survive another run through the entire prison just to get outside," said Marian.

"We'll do it the Legion way," said Sigrun. "You find a couple decent rooms—because you never want to have the privy where you sleep—block all the entrances, keep a paired watch, get some rest, and move on in the morning."

Malcolm frowned. "I thought the Legion had way stations."

"It does, but we couldn't always get to one. Sometimes it seemed we always marched right past them during the day, and then when we needed to bunk down, there'd be nothing in sight." Sigrun shrugged. "Best thing I can think of, unless someone's really good at jumping and can get across that chasm."

"Spending the night it is!" Marian said when Carver started eyeing the gorge.

As soon as Corypheus' ashes had been carried away by the wind, they went below. With the number of mages they had and the amount of stone at their disposal, blocking off exits was easier than they had originally assumed. Sigrun even instructed them on where and how to leave a hole for the smoke to go through, if they wanted a fire.

"Maker, _yes_," said Anders.

No one faulted him for it. Malcolm suspected they all felt the same way. There'd been too much darkness during the day and into the night. Any light was welcome, and certainly the warmth of a fire and hot food wouldn't hurt. Bedrolls were spread out in various corners or alongside walls in the room, leaving the center for the makeshift fire, and lending the illusion of privacy to the various members of the group. Sebastian showed a surprising talent at camp cooking, and managed to put together a decent stew from dried herbs, various root vegetables, the dried meat they'd carried in their packs, water from the dwarven waterskins, and a touch of good ale from a flask he happened to have.

"You _would_ be good at this," Carver said once he'd gotten a sizable helping of his own.

"If you don't want yours, I'll take it," said Bethany. "Because that sounded like complaining."

Carver paused to glance over at his sister. "It used to be that I'd eat your extra food."

"Warden thing," said Sigrun.

"What?" asked Marian.

"Increased appetite. Don't ask."

"Oh, no. I'm asking. Anders?"

As Anders began a long explanation of the effects of the taint, Malcolm settled back against the wall, wanting to let his mind wander, but half-afraid to do so. Líadan was next to him, starting into her empty tin bowl as if divining answers. She'd been unnaturally quiet, and since he understood why, he hadn't tried to get her to talk. With Corypheus dead, all they had left was returning to Kirkwall, quickly followed by returning to Denerim to deal with whatever Líadan had seen. It was clear to him she was getting anxious about it, and it wasn't something she had to carry on her own any longer.

At times, getting her to talk about what bothered her was like trying to help an injured wild animal without startling it. One wrong move and you'd get bitten. While they could share part of the burden of what Ava might be, there was one he could never truly help her with—her guilt he knew she'd be feeling if she'd given magic to Ava. The Gift, the Dalish called it. It was supposed to stay with the People, and not be passed on to elf-blooded humans. It had been hard for Líadan to relieve herself of the majority of her guilt for just _having_ Ava. The addition of the very real possibility of her having passed magic to their daughter was an entirely different measure of guilt that he'd never truly comprehend.

"Did you want to talk about Ava?" he asked, taking care to be very quiet. Fenris might have heard them, but he was the silent enough type to pretend he hadn't.

"No."

"Oh, so you're that kind of upset."

Líadan tapped the bowl against her drawn-up knee. "Which is another reason I hadn't told you my suspicions."

"Out of curiosity, did you ask her not to hit her brother with lightning? Or, you know, not do any sort of magic again while in front of anyone, ever?"

"Of course I did. Not that Cáel didn't deserve some sort of retaliation. She'd put up with his teasing all day until she got even."

He idly looked up at the ceiling. "I wonder where she got her patience from."

"My mother was very patient," said Líadan.

Malcolm chuckled, struck by the memory of Fiona snapping at both him and Líadan when they'd visited Weisshaupt years ago. "Certainly not _mine_. Not my natural mother. The mother who raised me, though. She was. I think only Andraste had as much patience as she did with what Fergus and I put her through." He missed her. He missed both of them, and there'd been so many times he'd wanted them in the lives of his children. They both would have enjoyed being a grandmother, and both of them would've had good advice about what to do concerning Ava. He also realized that Líadan still missed her own mother in an almost painful way. It would've been hard for him not to see it, and now would be one of those times when she'd acutely feel the pain of her being gone. When the slight laugh she'd shared with him was quickly smothered, he knew the direction of her troubled thoughts.

He wished he had an answer. Better yet, he wished he could somehow produce her mother so she'd find the comfort and advice she needed, things he couldn't provide in the same way. Since he couldn't, he worked with what he had by putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She leaned into him, relaxing slightly as she used his body for support. They were both too awake to fall asleep immediately, yet they were both too mentally exhausted to talk about what needed to be.

It could wait.

Given the considerable effort it had taken them to get through the prison the day before, getting out was remarkably easy. The darkspawn seemed to have wandered to locations elsewhere in the Deep Roads, the Carta hadn't returned to their hideout, and they never did find Riordan or his body. They set a good pace through the Planasene, grateful for Varric's ability to break up the monotony of a long march. He mostly told stories, ones that filled the group with laughter. A few times, Varric managed to find subjects he'd believed fine for good-natured teasing, yet turned out to be anything but.

Those times, Malcolm wasn't entirely convinced Varric hadn't done it on purpose. The dwarf had remarkable insight when it came to people in general, and cared enough about his friends to address issues they otherwise wouldn't. He also had enough decency to not bring up the topics when in public. A group of friends, however, didn't count as public. And so it went.

"So," Varric said to Marian as the afternoon stretched into early evening, "when will we be hearing the pitter-patter of the sneaky feet of many Starkhaven and Amell heirs?"

Marian groaned. "Maker, Varric, you sound like my mother. I'll tell you the same thing I told her—take it up with Sebastian."

"Tried that," said Varric. "He told me to take it up with Andraste. I told him I did, and that Andraste said to get it on. He didn't believe me. Can you believe that?"

"Yes," said Carver.

Sebastian looked toward the sky before he addressed Varric. "Andraste would not encourage one of her followers to 'get it on.'"

"How do you know? Not everything Andraste ever said is in the Chant. Maybe she liked colloquialisms."

The comment drew a sigh from Sebastian. Then he asked, "Did you know that I have already been verbally accosted over this very subject?"

Marian perked up. "By whom?"

"Your mother."

"That isn't news."

"And Isabela."

"Wait, together?" asked Varric.

"Yes," said Sebastian. "Together. Which meant I had to sit through an entire talk regarding the importance of heirs—that was Leandra—and the importance of grandchildren in one's life—also Leandra—and then a long, involved, and explicit talk about how heirs are made, courtesy of Isabela."

"And?" The slight hopefulness in Marian's tone reflected in her eyes.

"If I am to assume Starkhaven's throne from Goran, I've been made to see the necessity of heirs. Despite what vows I may have made to Andraste before, it is not equitable to enforce them when I have made vows to another."

"Thank the _Maker_," said Marian. "Can we start now?"

"No!" said Carver.

"We could catch up later, if you're worried about us falling behind."

"Maker, no!" said Bethany. "That's not why we're out here."

"You'll have to reign it in, love," said Sebastian. "There are… topics that must be addressed, first."

Marian raised an eyebrow at Sebastian. "Why do I get the feeling this will be less about favorite positions and more about certain talents a child could inherit from my side?"

"Because it is," Malcolm said before Sebastian could attempt to wriggle out of a direct answer. "Whether you want it to or not, there are problems that come with bringing magic into a royal line."

"The Maker wills as He wills," said Sebastian. "Your line is healthy, given it has many heirs compared to just a generation ago, even with the amount of magic in it."

"I don't think the Theirin line is a good comparison. We've a lot more magic in it than you would with Marian. Cáel has the most potential to show it, which is just one reason of many why we're hoping he doesn't inherit. Dane and Callum would be closest to what you'll have."

There were a few steps empty of talking before Sebastian replied, "You did not mention your daughter."

"She isn't in the line of succession, so there wasn't a point." For Sebastian to bring up Ava was a low blow. If she ever had children, they and their heirs wouldn't be in the line of succession, either. Bringing up Ava wasn't about discussing the potential of magic in a royal line, because she wasn't in the line, not the one that mattered when it came to assuming thrones.

"Yet, she is a mage."

Malcolm gritted his teeth as he shoved down choice words that would only make things worse. "Might be. _Might_."

Líadan made no effort at keeping the peace, immediately confronting the former Chantry brother with a deadly stare. "Are you going to tell the templars when we get back to Kirkwall?" Her implication was clear—if he was going to, she wasn't going to allow him to return.

Not even Anders or Justice felt the need to lend an additional threat, while Sebastian halted and turned around to meet Líadan's steady look.

Varric took measure of the entire group while managing to roll his eyes without actually doing so. "I suppose it's a good time to stop and find a good place to camp. Since we've stopped." He pointed at a clearing just beyond the edge of the trail. "Over there looks nice. How about we go there?" Without looking back to see if the others followed, he headed for the clearing.

No one argued his decision, and despite the tension straining the friendships amongst them, they followed Varric without exchanging any further words. They silently prepared a camp, and only once the sun had set and a quiet meal eaten did anyone talk.

It was Sebastian who took up the matter hanging over them. "I could not go to the templars on the mere supposition that a child is a mage. There is no proof, thus there is nothing to tell." For a moment, he glanced over at Marian, who was giving him a glare heavy with expectation. Realization at how he'd not cleared anything up lighted in his eyes, and he turned to address Líadan and Malcolm again. "Even if Andraste herself told me that your daughter was a mage, I would do nothing to put her in harm's way. The Circle, such as it exists now, is not a safe option. If a young mage already has responsible, competent instructors—such as the daughters of Malcolm Hawke—there is no need to remove a small child from the very arms of her parents."

"Also," Marian said from beside him, "I'd have to hurt you if you did. And I'd have to beat our friends in a footrace to get to you first, and I can't even imagine what Isabela or Merrill would do to you if they got to you before I did."

Sebastian had the decency to look abashed at his missteps, even though he'd meant well.

Líadan looked at Carver. "And you, templar?"

Carver gaped at her as he held up his hands to show his innocence. "Are you kidding? Mother would kill me. I'm not saying a sodding word."

"If it is true," Fenris said from the opposite side of the fire, "can she be taught the strength required for proper control?"

"I'll teach her myself, if need be," said Bethany.

Fenris nodded. "And you are not weak. If you believe it can be done, then I will trust it."

"We don't need to plan anything yet," said Malcolm. "Nothing is certain."

"No, it never is," said Fenris.

Next to Malcolm, Líadan visibly relaxed, the tension of preparation for a fight leaving her limbs as she settled into a comfortable position.

"You may not believe it," said Sebastian, "but there are those who wish for peace to exist. There are those who believe the magi are as much the Maker's children as any of us, and not to be treated as if they are not worthy of the Maker's love. You've even met one of them in Grand Cleric Elthina."

Marian shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she tried to hold in her objections. Then she gave up. "She doesn't do enough. She advocates peace, yet won't step in to curtail either side. Meredith is too harsh, and at the same time, Orsino too reactionary." She pointed at Anders without looking at him. "Not one word out of you." When it was apparent that Anders would keep quiet, she added, "It isn't going to end well if Elthina continues to do nothing."

"Which is why you wish to leave Kirkwall," said Sebastian.

"The writing is on the wall. I'm not going to ignore it, and neither should anyone else. Meredith will not change of her own accord, and neither will Orsino. There will be a time when one or both of them goes too far, and by then it will be too late for Elthina to intervene. Blood will be shed, and I don't want to be there when it is. I don't want my friends or family to be there, either, but not everyone has a way out of the city. Fenris has agreed to help us in Starkhaven, sure. And maybe Carver could get a transfer. Isabela has her ship. But others don't have ties loose enough to undo. My mother certainly won't let go, no matter what I say. Anders has his clinic. I can't expect him to leave those who need a healer most without one. Aveline is Captain of the Guard. I can't expect her to just walk away, especially when we have no work to offer her in return."

"She might," said Malcolm. "All the officers from Ostagar who are alive, but thought dead, are being offered back their commissions. Aveline should be getting a letter soon, if she hasn't already."

"Even then, I don't know what she'll say," said Marian.

He shrugged. "If she says no, the offer won't disappear. Ferelden could use good officers, and if she ever wanted to return, she'd be welcome."

Marian tapped her lips with her finger, and then turned to Varric. "What about you?"

"Me? I go where the stories take me. Don't you worry about me, Hawke."

"And Merrill? If we all go, she'll be alone in the city. She still has her eluvian, and her former clan is still on Sundermount, so it isn't like she can just pick up and leave."

Líadan straightened from where she'd been leaning against Malcolm, presumably for reassurance and not comfort, since the Planasene was rather warm in late summer. "Emrys offered her a place with his clan as his First. He approves of her work with the eluvian, so she could bring it with her. A shard of glass isn't that hard to carry." For her to voluntarily mention what Emrys had said to Merrill said a lot about what she also saw brewing in Kirkwall. She was only an occasional visitor, like Malcolm, and it seemed they both saw what Marian did.

Varric chuckled. "It isn't just a shard of glass anymore. Our Daisy's been hard at work. It looks like a real mirror now, even if it doesn't quite reflect."

"Still, it could be transported." Then Líadan broke off and glared into the forest, a glare meant for Merrill, and not the innocent trees.

Malcolm knew Líadan's frustration with Merrill and the eluvian gave her something else to focus on, so he didn't try to bring her out of it. That frustration was much preferred over the worry that would otherwise take over. The others continued chatting about how they could leave Kirkwall, with Marian and Sebastian finally deciding that nothing could really be done until they were back from Starkhaven and knew what the timetable there would be. It would also give Marian more time to spend convincing her mother to leave. While she didn't believe it could be done, she couldn't stop trying. It was her mother, after all. But Malcolm only partly paid attention, his thoughts on other things since he would be leaving Kirkwall in a matter of a couple days. What waited for him at home wasn't exactly an easy situation, but at least it wasn't Kirkwall.

Then again, maybe Kirkwall was the easier of the two, since people could just leave the city, and the problem would be over. He supposed leaving could be a solution to his and Líadan's problem, but then they'd be leaving a significant amount of family behind. He'd be leaving his home, and highly unlikely to be able to return. The lack of amenable solutions had served to keep him awake for his watch the night before, and he hoped his tiredness would force him to sleep tonight. Or maybe a way out would be dropped in his lap.

In their tent, as Líadan pulled blankets around them, Malcolm asked, "Did you want to talk about it yet?"

Her movements didn't cease. "No." She sounded far more confident than he believed she felt. It was in her sleep that her true feelings showed. When it became stuffy and overly warm in the tent, as usually happened sometime in the night when their confines were tight, she didn't roll away to escape the additional heat of another body. Since she never slept well when hot, she rarely stayed against him when it was. So when the warmth didn't chase her away, and she instead draped an arm over his chest and pressed closer, he knew she was far more worried than she'd let on. Sleep eluded him as he stared up at the canvas of the tent, searching for a solution.

The next day, when they reached Kirkwall and had washed off the dust and grime from the road and battle, it was Líadan who suggested a visit to Merrill. Bethany was the first to give her a questioning look, knowing full well how Líadan felt about the eluvian and Merrill's involvement, and Malcolm gave Líadan the same look.

"I'm not so sure I want to bring you down there," said Bethany.

Líadan scowled at her, not doing a good job of making a case for herself. "I'm not going to do whatever it is you think I'm going to do to Merrill."

"Maybe you think you aren't. You might change your mind when you get there, and I don't want responsibility for it."

"Fine. We'll go by ourselves."

Malcolm widened his eyes in panic. They'd end up at the docks, if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, they'd end up in a fight in Darktown. Neither place was where they wanted to be.

"You'd never get there."

_Exactly_, Malcolm mouthed to Bethany from behind Líadan.

Isabela, who indeed had been waiting for them all when they got back, straightened up from where she'd been reading various notes and letters left on Marian's desk. "I'll bring them. Wouldn't want them wandering into Darktown. I'm not sure the Coterie could sustain the damage they'd take by trying to steal from two lost Wardens. Besides," she said as Bethany tried to voice her objections, "I haven't checked in on Kitten in a few days, so I'm going there. If these two choose to follow me, who am I to stop them?"

Bethany threw her hands over her head as she walked away, absolving herself of the responsibility. Isabela only laughed.

Her good humor accompanied the trio as they took the many steps down to Lowtown. Isabela told them about her most recent escapade—something involving Estwatch and evading other pirates who wouldn't have known the proper star charts to use even if said charts had been rolled up and smacked them in the face—and the gossip she'd managed to wrangle from Varric practically as soon as they'd entered the city.

Then she quirked her lips, mulling over a new idea as they descended the last few sets of stairs leading to the alienage. "You know, if what I heard from Varric is true, you both realize this just means you'll have to send your girl to me to be my apprentice?"

Malcolm chuckled, genuinely amused by the thought. He could easily see his daughter being perfectly happy out at sea. "She'd probably like that."

"I bet she'd make a great sailor. With her mother's agility and her father's rather exceptional sailing skills, she could take over as Queen of the Eastern Seas when she's of age."

"I'm almost tempted," said Malcolm.

"I know! That's what makes this so fun." Her eyes brightened more as she ran with her idea. "I could probably even talk Sunshine into signing on."

"We'll consider your offer," said Líadan, who sounded rather serious about not intending to consider the offer at all.

"Oh, don't talk like that. Where did my lovely pirate Warden go?"

"Isabela, I've never been a pirate."

"More's the pity, I say. Your whole family could take to the seas. It would be a thing of beauty. You with wind-blown hair, a treasure at the sea—"

"If you stop right there, I'll consider it."

"Really?"

"Really."

Isabela hugged her close from the side. "That's my girl."

When they passed the vhenadahl, Isabela announced that she'd be waiting outside. "There's a lovely hat shop around the corner. I should see if they got in anything new while I was away." Before they could object, she was gone.

Merrill invited Malcolm in after Líadan. He felt overly large in the small home, cramped to the point where he had recollections of the aravels he'd once tried to fit inside. Shelves filled with books dominated one wall of Merrill's apartment, most of which had been added in the years since the Qunari tried to take over Kirkwall. Maker, but there were a lot. He'd gotten so preoccupied with staring up at them that he was left behind by the other two people in the home.

"It still doesn't work," he heard Merrill say to Líadan as he stepped around the corner. "But I don't dare finish it until I deal with the spirit that offered its help. All spirits are dangerous, so I can't know its true intentions. There could even be some way it could escape through it. It has to be clean; it's the only way to be sure."

To Malcolm, the eluvian looked finished. Its base was a curious contraption of curling wooden vines, but the mirror itself looked much like what he remembered. It reflected light so dully that it might well as not have reflected at all, and he felt pushed away from it, like it was telling him not to touch it. Not that he would. Sometimes, he recalled when he'd had to fire that bolt into a blighted, twisted creature that had once been Líadan's friend Tamlen. And it'd been Tamlen who'd touched the eluvian—this eluvian in particular. It wasn't like the one Morrigan had found and traveled through. That one had been a portal. This one was wrong. Not _as_ wrong, but still wrong in some indescribable way.

"The spirit in the statue? Wasn't that Justice?" asked Líadan. Her expression had already turned dark when she first gazed at the nearly-complete eluvian, and it only grew darker as explanations became more muddled.

"There were several more. I might need to deal with them all to be sure it's safe. Others will have to come with me. Maybe Anders, so he can find out from Justice which spirits need to be killed. All of them, probably, which won't be easy. Hawke will—"

"Has it occurred to you that it might be difficult for a reason?" Líadan stood and stepped away from the eluvian. Then she held one of her arms towards it, as if the ward it off should it attack her. "That all these barriers are there to keep people from getting hurt? And you just go leaping over them, thinking of only the history you can save, thinking of what it will be when it's completed, and not thinking—just not thinking! I'm afraid that you aren't afraid enough. You're talking about going up to Sundermount to confront several spirits, like you're going to come out on top from a battle like that."

The level of Líadan's anger was astonishing; Malcolm hadn't seen her like this since the Blight. Yet, Merrill seemed untroubled, standing up straight, never looking away from the friend practically shouting at her.

Meanwhile, Líadan hadn't stopped. "You might as well just tear a hole in the Veil and fight everything that comes out for all you'll be able to survive. You're about to open a door that should never have been opened in the first place. Look at—"

"What are you really afraid of, _lethallan_?" asked Merrill.

Líadan stopped mid-sentence.

Merrill continued to speak softly, a counterpoint to Líadan's raised voice from before. "You act like you're angry, maybe even feel like you're angry, but it's only a disguise for your fear."

A silence passed between them, as Merrill waited while Líadan stared at a clanmate who dared to say what she truly saw. Then Líadan seemed to crumple inward, slumping to the floor to lean against the side of Merrill's small bed. The anger had been keeping her upright, and when she let it go, her strength went with it. "I think Ava has the Gift."

Merrill went to her side and took one of Líadan's hands in hers. "I'm so sorry."

Malcolm felt like an intruder. He was the reason why Merrill consoled Líadan instead of congratulating her. In a Dalish clan, a child manifesting magic was a happy occasion. Only in the world of the elf-blooded, of humans and the Chantry, was it a curse. He wondered if he should go outside.

"You don't need to leave, _lethallin_," said Merrill, as if she'd known what was going through his head.

"No, don't leave." Líadan sounded remarkably calm, given the events that'd happened only moments before. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's the eluvian. It's like it focuses our tendencies, like it did to Tamlen's curiosity—and to mine. Maybe to Merrill's, too." She remained seated, but she straightened a little.

"If you say so," said Malcolm. He'd noticed that Merrill hadn't let go of Líadan's hand.

"Neither of you believe me, I know." Líadan cast a meaningful look at Merrill's hand, and then raised her eyebrow at Malcolm. "I just came here to get Merrill's opinion about what to do, if… if it's true."

He tried a smile. "There's always Isabela's offer to consider."

Her stare at him rivaled the one she'd given Merrill. "Malcolm. We are not apprenticing our daughter to a pirate."

"But that would be so fun for her!" said Merrill. "I could go, too. Isabela told me I'm always welcome on her ship."

Líadan sighed.

Merrill let go of her hand and gave it a pat. "It'll work out. If you don't want to send her to Isabela, then maybe the Dalish, like Emrys did for Feynriel. Or maybe another clan, like the Ra'asiel, if you can find them. The Mahariel, maybe. It will depend on Keeper Marethari." Then Merrill's lightheartedness slipped away, replaced by a solemnity Malcolm saw a lot with Dalish Keepers. "No matter what you decide to do, you should consider Cáel's safety, as well, if it's true. The Chantry knows he's _Asha'belannar_'s grandson. If they discover his sister has the Gift, I don't think they'd leave him alone, not if any of them are like Knight-Commander Meredith. But he will always have safe refuge with the Dalish. No clan would leave kin of _Asha'belannar_ unprotected."

At their despondent expressions, Merrill lifted her hands, as if she could lift their spirits with them. "But we don't really have to assume anything. Maybe it isn't magic. If it is, you've got a teacher, don't you? Bethany's quite good and patient. So long as your daughter's magic stays hidden from the templars, there's no need to be so down."

"I want to believe you," said Líadan.

"I'll believe for you," said Merrill. "I can hold onto hope when no one else can."

Líadan took in Merrill's statement, and then looked over at the eluvian in the corner. After she studied it this time, the rancor she usually reserved for it was absent. "You're missing two pieces, Merrill." She pointed to each side of the eluvian. "There should be a statue of Falon'Din on one side, and then a statue of Dirthamen on the other, like they're guarding the eluvian."

Merrill hopped to her feet and circled the eluvian. Then she stopped to face Líadan. "How do you know?"

After releasing a long breath, Líadan stood up. "Years ago, while we were looking for Morrigan, we went back to that cave in the Brecilian Forest. You'd already taken the glass by then, but the frame was still there, along with the Tevinter statues. Outside the room, we came across the statue of Falon'Din, and I started to wonder where Dirthamen was, because—"

"The brothers are always together," said Merrill.

Líadan nodded. "Right. So, some of us looked for his statue, while the two dwarves in our party studied an oddity they'd noticed about the bases of the statues. They figured out that the Tevinter statues weren't the ones that had originally been there, and they were able to show where the Falon'Din statue had been cut at its base and removed from the eluvian. We assumed the same had happened to the Dirthamen statue, but the statue itself was lost or destroyed."

"You're certain?"

"When Tamlen and I went in the room the first time, there was a bear, and the bear was tainted."

"So even with Dirthamen gone, his favorite kept watch over his artifact," said Merrill. "This helps! Except I don't know where I'd get statues of Falon'Din and Dirthamen. I'm not very good at carving."

"Master Ilen should be able to help you," said Líadan.

"He might not. The clan has changed."

"Do you know where the clan's statues of the Creators went? It isn't like the clan's using them."

Merrill's eyes lit up, even though the words that immediately followed didn't match the sentiment. "No, not ours. But when Keeper Emrys visited with Oisín, they brought new statues. They were never set out like they should be, just like the others that disappeared, but the donated ones are still in the aravel that carried them to Sundermount. If I invoke _vir sulevanan_, they'll have to give them to me. I should kill the spirits first, though. Just in case."

"I think…" Líadan took measure of Merrill, and then nodded. "I think that would be for the best."

"I wish you could come with me. I know you can't. You've too much to deal with, but that doesn't change what I wish."

"And if I had the time, I'd go with you," said Líadan, which took Malcolm entirely by surprise. He'd thought that if Merrill had ever asked Líadan for help with the eluvian, Líadan would've told her clanmate to do something anatomically impossible with it. And now she was actively helping, and actually had said she'd do more, if she could.

He idly wondered if Líadan had picked up some sort of passenger while they were at the prison.

Merrill seemed to be having the same kind of thoughts. She tilted her head to the side as she studied her clanmate. "Why've you changed your mind?"

Which, Malcolm figured, was a better question than his would have been. "_Have you lost your mind?"_ would have ended painfully.

For just a moment, Líadan's decent mood departed. "After what I might have taken from them, the Dalish deserve something good. Maybe you can do that." Then Líadan returned to her normal self, and cast a determined look at Merrill. "Just promise me that if you can't be sure the eluvian won't pose a threat, you'll leave it be."

"I promise, _lethallan_." Merrill briefly glanced down at her toes before she asked her next question. "Would it be all right if I brought it to Keeper Emrys, if this plan doesn't work?"

Líadan opened her mouth, shut it, mulled over the question, and then attempted another answer. "If it meant you leaving Kirkwall, yes."

"You can feel it, too? Like something's building to an end? It's very oppressive."

If Merrill had anything else to add, it was cut off by Isabela's voice from the front door. "Come on, you lot. We've got a date at the Hanged Man for another round of Diamondback."

Malcolm groaned.

"Oh! You aren't very good at cards, either?" asked Merrill.

"He's awful," said Isabela. "My aim is to take him for all he's worth, and then put him to work on my ship. In my cabin. In my bunk. Without the clothes and armor I would've won from him before that."

Malcolm looked to Líadan for help. "You don't have anything to say about this?"

She flashed a grin at him, and nothing more.

_Maker_. They would be the death of him.

As they headed for the Hanged Man, Malcolm reasoned he felt somewhat better—despite Isabela's rather detailed plans for debauchery—and it was obvious that Líadan was back to herself. Their last night in Kirkwall was enjoyable, with Malcolm even narrowly avoiding the loss of his armor and clothing, as Isabela had practically promised. Líadan was up half the night winning back the coin he'd lost. The wee hours brought the match down to Marian and Líadan, and in the end, they called it a draw and rewarded themselves with sleep, much to Isabela's disappointment. To make up for it, Isabela informed them, she'd bring them home, but on the condition they add another week for her at the Pearl on their tab.

"Remember what I said," she told them when they disembarked in Denerim. "I meant every word." Then with a wink and a wave, she was off to the brothel, while the four Wardens headed for the compound to meet with their Warden-Commander.

With the Warden compound in Denerim possessing of a full complement, it meant that they had to wait for Hildur to finish a session with a batch of potential recruits. The small meetings were Hildur's way of weeding out recruits with stars in their eyes, yet no skills in their hands. She also tended to use the opportunity to scare the potential recruits, if she could. A squad of four veteran Wardens returning from a long trip to the vicinity of the Deep Roads clattering through the front door and into the main hall certainly provided one. Though they'd had the chance to clean up in Kirkwall, it always took a while to truly rid themselves of the stink of darkspawn. Coupled with the smell of salt from their days at sea, one could easily tell they hadn't been for a nice stroll around Denerim.

"Sweet Ancestors!" Hildur said as soon as she noticed them. "What happened to your shield? I've seen arse-ends of brontos that've looked better."

Malcolm scowled, the rather battered state of his shield having slipped his mind. He offered Hildur a rueful grin. "Turns out there's alpha versions of genlocks," he said, doing his best to sound nonchalant, because that tended to unnerve potential recruits more.

"We ran into it," said Sigrun. "Literally."

Bethany frowned. "I think it ran into us. Well, it ran into someone else first, and then into Malcolm. It's a little blurry with the rest of the darkspawn that attacked with it."

"Emissary was a nasty piece of work," said Malcolm.

"Emissary?" asked one of the potential recruits.

"Darkspawn mage," said Hildur. "Crushing prison spell is their favorite. Feels like all your bones are ground together while still inside your body."

Two of the five potential recruits got up from their seats and left the building.

"That was just mean," said Malcolm.

Hildur lifted her hands up in an innocent shrug. "I'm only telling it like it is. You've been caught by how many of those spells?"

"More than I'd like to count."

"And was my description not apt?"

"Mostly. You forgot about the part where it lifts you up in the air, so that when the spell lets go, you land on the ground pretty hard. And if you're really lucky, it won't be on your head."

A third potential recruit left.

Hildur faced the other two. "All right, if that didn't scare the pants off you, come back tomorrow morning and we'll put you through some drills." After the last two departed, Hildur glanced over at her veteran Wardens. "Sovereign says only one comes back in the morning."

"I'll take it," said Sigrun. "I say none of them do."

Bethany hadn't taken her eyes off the closed door. "Maker, they get younger every year. Have any of them even reached their majority?"

"Hey!" said Malcolm. "I hadn't reached mine by the time we ended the Blight."

Hildur laughed as she stood from the bench. "And you only just now started to look your age. Maybe."

"Don't remind me," Líadan said with a sigh.

"All right, let's get this report business over with." Hildur waved in the direction of the stairs. "We can use Malcolm's study, since I took it over while he was gone." She gave him a smile. "Don't worry, you can have it back, and it'll be in better shape than what you left it in, and not destroyed, like when you leave it to Oghren."

Malcolm was still finding items and stains of dubious origin from the last time Oghren had been left in command.

Having been away from home for almost a fortnight, none of them were eager to stick around to deliver a lengthy report to their commanding officer. Fortunately for them, the Grey Wardens had never been big on official methods of delivering reports. So long as the report was given verbally, and then written down in a legible, literate script, there were no other requirements, which meant a debriefing by a Warden-Commander wasn't a huge deal. Consequently, they tended to also take very little time.

Malcolm did feel a bit awkward to have Hildur sitting behind his desk instead of him. While he hadn't been used to having a study at first, he'd accepted his role over the years, and came to like running the Denerim compound. It was a far sight better than doing princely things. Here, there was a lot less bullshit, both thrown and tolerated.

"So, how did it go?" Hildur asked as the other Wardens found chairs.

Malcolm gently tossed the journal on the desk before taking a seat. "Corypheus is dead. Prison had a lot of darkspawn. Ran into Janeka. She wouldn't listen to reason—I know, I was shocked, too—and attacked us. She came around to our side mid-fight when she figured out we were the Wardens who ended the Blight. So, she started to help us kill the revenants she summoned—"

"Bloody revenants," muttered Bethany.

Malcolm resisted a smile, because after their trip, she had more than enough reason to hate revenants, obvious reasons aside. "And then Anders' passenger decided to kill her, because she was a blood mage. Or something. Then the Wardens with her took exception and attacked us, while the revenants attacked _everybody_, and it was looking bad until Justice—the same spirit that got us _into_ the fight—got tired of it and killed everything but us."

Hildur stared at him for a minute. "Go back to the bit about Anders."

"The spirit he took in, Justice? He's an—"

Bethany helped him out. "Uptight, unreasonable, high-strung, intolerant—"

"I get it," said Hildur. "What I don't get is how Anders lost control of him."

Malcolm shrugged. "Could've been plenty of things."

"Just two," said Sigrun. "Either the calling Corypheus did unhinged the spirit along with Anders' control, or—"

"Or Justice is taking over," said Bethany.

The partial explanation only served to make Hildur more concerned. "Do we need to send a group to help him regain control? If he's a danger, either to himself or others or both, we need to bring him home. And it isn't just something we'd do to protect the Wardens from backlash, either. He's one of ours. If he's lost, we need to find him."

"I'm not sure he can be," said Líadan, without any force to her voice at all, as if illustrating the futility of trying to rescue Anders.

Hildur raised an eyebrow at her, questioning her pessimism. While Líadan wasn't one to be overly optimistic, her outlook wasn't usually quite so dark. Even Sigrun shot her a confused look. Then Hildur shifted away from Líadan and to the others. "We still owe it to him to try, if he needs it."

"I wouldn't say he needs it right now," said Bethany. "My sister's watching over him. If she thought someone needed to intervene, she said she'd tell me, as long as it wasn't an emergency. In that case, she'd send a letter… after the fact." Each of them knew exactly what 'after the fact' meant: Anders being killed, because he wouldn't have been Anders anymore.

Hildur nodded. "Sounds like a decent enough plan for now, but it bears watching. I'll at least send him a letter from me, just to check in." She glanced down at the journal Malcolm had returned to her. "I know the reports from the early Wardens talk about Corypheus' calling, and you just mentioned it, so looks like that part's true." Then she looked directly at Malcolm and Líadan. "What are your thoughts on it? Like the Archdemon from the Blight?"

"Different," said Malcolm. "The Old Gods have a musical quality to their call, but unless you're darkspawn or a ghoul, it doesn't compel you to do anything. Corypheus was irritating, and he thought he could control us like he could the ghouls and other Wardens. The only one of us who had to actively resist obeying him was Anders."

"Differences between the old and new Joining potions, I think," said Hildur. "Makes it all the better reason for every Warden to use it, like we do here, and not some optional thing, like every other country." She closed the journal and set it aside. "Is there anything else? If not, you're free to go."

Bethany halfway stood, but rest remained seated. Then Sigrun looked expectantly at Líadan. "Well?"

"Riordan was there," Líadan said after glaring at Sigrun.

Hildur jumped a little. "Our Riordan?"

The smile Líadan gave her was weary and rueful both. "I don't know any others."

"And?" asked Hildur.

"He talked," said Malcolm.

"I think he was a darkspawn the whole time," said Sigrun. "Not really Riordan, just a ghost of him. He heard Corypheus' call and followed it through the Deep Roads to the prison. We saw him a few times, and he sounded fairly rational when he talked, but…" She shrugged.

Malcolm sighed. "In the end, he helped free Corypheus, forcing us into a tough fight. Then he disappeared while we were in battle."

"Did you find him afterward?"

"No," said Sigrun. "No sign of him, not even when we retraced our steps as we left."

Hildur's furrowed brow told them the news still troubled her. "I'll put a note in my report. Weisshaupt will probably want to investigate further. I know I do, but they're better equipped." She opened up the journal, jotted a few notes, and closed it again. "Any other surprises?" When no one answered beyond shakes of the head, Hildur waved them out of the room. But then she held up a hand as they stood. "Wait." She pointed at Bethany and Sigrun. "You two can go." Her finger moved to Malcolm and Líadan, pointing first at them, and then the chairs they'd just abandoned. "You two stay here."

As they left, Bethany and Sigrun gave them confused, but sympathetic looks.

Hildur waited until the door closed before she leveled her gaze on Líadan. "What's with you?"

Líadan raised her eyebrows. "What's with me, what?"

"You're never this quiet. You've never been this quiet, not in all the years I've known you."

"It was a long trip. I have a lot to think about."

Hildur scoffed. "Right, and dusters live in the Diamond Quarter. Try again, and don't even think of telling me it's Riordan, either."

Líadan crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She said nothing as she continued to meet Hildur's steady look.

After a long moment of staring each other down, Hildur sighed and turned to Malcolm. "Tell me."

His eyes widened. This wasn't even _fair_. Putting him on the spot, knowing full well he couldn't lie to literally save his life. But, he had to at least attempt to avoid spilling everything, because Líadan might very well kill him if he broke right away. "There isn't—"

"Try again."

Like it wasn't now perfectly clear what Hildur's motive had been in keeping him back along with Líadan when it came to confessions. And they said he was the transparent one. "Nothing's—"

"Tell me another."

Maker, this was awful. He was a grown man, and yet Hildur had him pinned with a glare rivaling ones his mother had given him when he was a boy. Normally, he'd have broken by now and told Hildur everything in a rush to get it over with, but if Líadan didn't want to tell Hildur, he had to go along with with her decision. The issue with Ava was too important to be anything but united.

Malcolm threw his hands in the air, feigning outrage. "I haven't gotten a _chance_ to tell you anything."

This time, Hildur didn't say a word. She just stared at him.

He let his gaze wander over to the window behind Hildur, calculating if he could get over there and jump out before she could catch him. Hildur was deceptively fast.

"We think Ava might have magic," said Líadan. Then she briefly touched Malcolm's arm, telling him that she'd spoken in order to save him. Which was nice of her, he figured. She'd also probably noticed him eyeing the window and decided she'd rather not have him with broken legs.

Hildur settled back in her chair, the hardness that had been in her eyes immediately gone. "Nuglet's a mage, huh? I'm not exactly surprised, but one out of two isn't bad, considering." She leaned forward and picked up the quill she'd dropped earlier. "I'll send a message up to the Vigil to have Perran come down. She'll need a teacher, and while Bethany's good, I'd be more comfortable with Perran as primary instructor since he trained under a Dalish Keeper before he became one. Bethany will be a good secondary teacher." She snagged a piece of paper, but didn't write on it yet as she tapped the quill against her chin. "The Wardens and the staff here will know, of course, but no one will pass it on. I've made sure of that."

Líadan stared at her. "You've thought about this."

Hildur seemed genuinely surprised. "Of course I have. Odds were pretty damn high for at least one of the nuglets to turn out a mage, and we needed to be ready for that. Just like with Anders, you're family, and so are the children. That means we take care of you. From what I'm told, kid mages need teachers. And, based on what I've seen and heard, any family of mine going to the human Circle is out of the question. That means we find one or more of our own to do the teaching. Perran agreed ages ago, and the staff and Wardens have been thoroughly vetted to make sure they won't go running off to fetch templars—not just for little mages, mind you, but also because the Wardens have blood mages, and we don't want templars killing them."

They both continued giving her bewildered looks.

She half-rolled her eyes before she tried again. "What I'm saying is, we'll keep her safe. If we have to, we'll send the lot of you to another post. Vigil or the Peak, ideally, but if you have to leave the country, I'm sure Georg will find a good place."

Malcolm hadn't expected anyone to be so unbothered by the possibility of magic, and certainly hadn't foreseen anyone being so prepared to harbor and school an apostate. "What if they come for her?"

"The Chantry? Let them. They can't dictate to the Wardens, and if they try to bully us, they won't succeed. If the Chantry thinks they can outfight us, then they'll need to be taught otherwise. It isn't just me saying this, either. Georg holds the same view, as do his advisors, even the devout Andrastians."

While Malcolm understood why Fergus felt this way, he couldn't quite grasp the same about Hildur. "But Ava isn't a Warden."

"No, but you've both seen the records regarding children who happen to have two Warden parents. Those records are important to keep up to date. Especially when this augmented Joining potion counteracts a lot of nastier side effects of the Joining, including fertility. There could be more kids like yours, so we all need to know that these kids turn out all right. Chantry interference would make that difficult, to say the least. If they could take away a mage child of two Wardens, they might get ideas about what they can do to actual Warden mages." She quickly scratched something down on the paper, and looked up at them again when they didn't say anything. "All that aside—don't forget the family part. Wardens protect their own. Of course, unless it's darkspawn to be fought, most would prefer to avoid conflict. Makes it easier and better for everyone involved. However, if it becomes necessary, we won't back down."

"Thank you," said Líadan, sounding as astonished as Malcolm felt.

Hildur gave her a friendly smile. "Not a problem at all. Just let me know when you find out for sure if she is or isn't. Regardless, I'll send for Perran since it'll take a few days for him to get here." She drummed the fingers of her free hand on the desk. "And I know you dread the truth that she is one. I understand it, as well as any dwarf is able. And I know you'd rather stay as you are, here in Denerim, with friends and family. I'd prefer that, too. But if that option isn't available, you don't need to dread the worst possible outcome. No one from our Warden family goes to the Circle. Not on my watch."

When they kept staring at her, she resorted to shooing them out. "Go on. Go see your family. I heard you've been missed."

They left the compound in a bit of a daze, but Hildur had managed to brighten their prospects, if just a little.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with family, stories of Wardening relayed to a jealous Alistair, along with censored versions of events told to rapt children who were up far too late in the evening, yet far too excited to settle down for sleep at a reasonable time. Callum was the first to succumb, falling asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Alistair rolled his eyes and picked him up, the boy staying asleep even as his father put him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"I suppose this is good night," Alistair said to Malcolm and Líadan. Then he gave the remaining children a salute. "And I am impressed with your ability to remain awake, young sers. Alas, it's time for bed." With that, he walked out the door of the solar.

"Come along," Anora said to Dane when he showed no sign of following. "There will be plenty of stories tomorrow. If your father and your aunt and uncle don't have enough, the other Wardens have plenty more, provided you ask nicely." Dane dragged his feet, but he obeyed, and Anora bade the others good night as she herded her eldest out of the room.

"Right then," Nuala said as she stood up. "Off with you two. Past your bedtimes, and I know neither of you will sleep in when you should. I'm right behind you, so you'd better wash up properly." Then she chased the children to their rooms, with Malcolm and Líadan following slowly behind.

When they reached their family quarters, Líadan asked Nuala to supervise Cáel, and told her they would help Ava. Before he ducked into his room, Cáel gave them both a look telling them he knew exactly what they were doing. Malcolm could only give his son a wan smile, having nothing reassuring to say, especially when he knew that his son already knew what the truth was, and they didn't.

The door had hardly closed before Ava had perched herself on her bed. Her legs dangled off the edge as she idly kicked the mattress with her heels, and she took quick looks at them only to return to looking down at her hands that she'd placed in her lap. She was hardly the picture of the normal scamp they were used to, a child more likely to be building forts with her blankets to wage imaginary battles than she was to behave at bedtime. "I know why you're here," she said, her tone almost pleading.

Líadan hesitantly sat beside her, as if Ava would shy away.

Malcolm stayed between the bed and the door, and held his breath.

"It was magic," said Ava.

Something inside Malcolm tore, the ragged edges leaving little chance for repair. His chest burned because he wouldn't stop holding his breath, the breath he'd held for that last chance for hope. If he let it go, it would be gone. Except it had already fled, and so he breathed. And he used the time between those breaths to figure out what they could do, because Merrill's grasp on hope didn't extend as far as Ferelden.

Líadan had gathered Ava into her arms, tears brimming in her own eyes when they so rarely did. She held her jaw set against the tremors the sadness brought, the guilt she felt for betraying her people in having passed the Gift to an elf-blooded child, and the despair only a mage living in a world with the Chantry could know at discovering their own child had magic.

"I'm sorry," Ava said into Líadan's shoulder.

"It's not your fault." She'd had to unclench her jaw to say it, releasing the strained hold she'd kept on her emotions, and it rendered her feelings transparent. It was easily enough seen where Líadan believed the fault to be—herself.

Malcolm caught her eyes with his. "It isn't yours, either." He didn't need to remind her that his own mother had been a mage. It wouldn't matter either way, because it was clear that Líadan wouldn't believe the blame didn't rest directly on her shoulders. Yet Malcolm knew that if blame belonged to anyone, it belonged to the Chantry and its ilk, for forcing this desperation on mages and their families. "It isn't anyone's," he said out loud. "Except for the Chantry, and we don't have to get them involved. If it's magic, Perran and Bethany said they'd teach you."

Ava pushed away from her mother. "I don't want to learn."

"You have to learn." Líadan reached out and took Ava's hands in hers. "You have to learn to control it, or it could hurt people. If you can control it, if you can make sure that no one but us or Perran or Bethany see it, we can all stay home."

"What if someone else sees?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that the Chantry will try to take you away, and we won't let that happen."

Ava looked up at Malcolm for confirmation.

He gave it. "We won't. No matter what it takes, they won't take you." Yet he'd seen the shadow of fear the Chantry had cast in his daughter's eyes, and there was nothing he could do to remove it. She would always be afraid, and there was nothing he could to do reassure her.

The Chantry would always exist. It was the way of the world.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"The thane of Wyvern Hold, so the story goes, had a vision and in it he beheld his clan, sleeping, deep in their cups after a feast. And as he watched, they transformed one by one into serpents. The only ones who escaped this fate were those snatched up by eagles and carried away.

The thane took this to mean that a terrible calamity would befall his people and that only the Lady of the Skies could save them. So the Wyvern clan forswore all other gods and devoted themselves to the Lady.

But the other Avvar clans feared that the disrespect of Clan Wyvern would bring the wrath of Korth the Mountain-Father upon their people. The other thanes tried words and then blades to change Wyvern's ways without success.

When the Tevinter Imperium came with their legions to claim the mountains, many clans were wiped out, enslaved, or forced to flee across the Waking Sea to the south. Clan Wyvern, however, was not among them. They simply disappeared. And to this day some Avvar thanes will tell you—if they have had enough mead—that the last any soul ever saw of the Wyvern clan was a great flight of eagles descending to their hold."

—from _Tales of the Mountain-People_, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Morrigan**

As her child grew, there were times when Morrigan was reminded of an elf she once knew. These times were not when he showed his capacity for magic. These times were not when he switched easily from the trade tongue to Elvish and back. These times were not when he managed to impress even Arlathan's mages with his potential. These times were also not when he read voraciously, taking in every fragment of information he could scavenge, for the sake of knowledge alone. Knowledge, he'd been taught, was power, and he believed it with the same fervor of the elves who believed in their Creators so fiercely that they still guarded Arlathan's temples.

None of those times reminded Morrigan of Zevran. Those particular memories were left to be brought forth by Nathaniel, when he chose to teach tricks of his common trade to the seven-year-old boy with the soul of an Old God. That the boy turned out to be preternaturally good at it did nothing to make it acceptable, and when the boy attempted to charm his way out of being disciplined and nearly succeeded, it irked her. Let him practice his charms on the thousand-year-old elf who spoke too slowly, and yet knew so much that her son was forced to listen. Cianán hated lessons with Taranis, though he saw the necessity of them. Whenever her son stepped too far out of place, he would inevitably find himself trapped in the confines of the old elf's study. The only thing that held the boy there was his thirst for knowledge, and he put himself through the torture of staying for the sake of it. Yet, given the choice, he would not go of his own accord.

Once, Cianán had told Taranis that their lessons were a punishment for him, expecting outrage, leniency, or to be dismissed. Yet because Taranis had already known the nature of the arrangement, he'd simply smiled and carried on, even slower that time. It was remarkably effective as a disciplinary tool, yet did not waste too much of the boy's valuable time. Truly, the few occasions in which Cianán found himself in a spot of trouble always led back to Nathaniel.

When she was certain that Cianán's trudge down the path would carry him dutifully to Taranis' lessons, Morrigan went to confront the real problem. She found Nathaniel in the central grassy field of the city, relegated to a corner that had been portioned off for archery practice. Though they had been away from Thedas for over a thousand years, the elves of Arlathan had not let their martial skills rust, and on any day, there would be many taking shots at the targets. In the beginning, they had grudgingly allowed Nathaniel to practice alongside them. In the years since, they had come to view his presence as sufferable.

Morrigan stood behind Nathaniel, crossed her arms, and waited.

The Grey Warden loosed one last shot before he turned to face her, not even bothering to see where his arrow had struck the target—center. She would not tell him so. If he had wanted to know, he would have looked, and she was not impressed by his show of overconfidence.

"I take it you have a reason to be directing your glare at my person, my lady?"

"You have taught him more of your tricks."

Nathaniel chuckled. "He's learned them rather well, hasn't he?"

"He has magic. He does not need to be a pickpocket." Nathaniel would not charm her, either. His attempts to do so in complimenting her son would not work, and she would prove it thus.

"It hones his dexterity."

"It makes him a thief."

Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Since when do you care about petty thievery?"

"Since it was something of mine he stole." It was not the item itself she concerned herself over. Since her son was the obvious culprit, the item had been easily recovered. What she did not like was the questions the ring had brought forth from the child. It had piqued his curiosity and he had not relented in his tiny inquisition:

It looks like a leaf. Is it a leaf? _Yes._

What is it made of? _Wood of a silvery color. More, I do not know._

Why don't you know? _I am not an expert on trees._

Where did you get it? _It was given to me._

Who gave it to you? _A friend whom I once named sister._

What does it do? _Nothing_. _It does nothing._

If it does nothing, why do you keep it? _Because I choose to._

The last question had diminished her enough to send him to Taranis before she was forced to venture any further into the memory of a life left long ago.

"It was not the first thing of mine he had stolen," she said when Nathaniel began to regard her too curiously. "The thievery must be stopped."

The item he had stolen last time was a cowl given to her as a gift. The gift had not been the cowl itself, but her reaction: laughter in a time governed by the grim oppression of fate. More a hideous pile of cloth roughly sewn together than an actual, useful cowl, it had still served a purpose. Malcolm had never revealed where he'd obtained it, nor was it important. The magic the cowl held was the possibility of respite from fate, if only temporary. And so she had kept it, just as she kept the ring Líadan had given to her before she had stepped through the eluvian. Líadan had explained that it would benefit Morrigan far more than it would her, in how it enhanced cast spells. Morrigan had no argument to such reasoning, for Líadan had been right. They both had not mentioned anything of sentimentality. It was better that way.

Yet, when Cianán had placed the cowl upon his head, Morrigan had almost allowed a laugh to escape, touched by a rare moment of amusement. Then she was very nearly overwhelmed by memories she did not want to relive.

"Do not teach him to steal," Morrigan said to Nathaniel. "I will abide it no longer."

He bowed. "As you say, my lady."

His easy acquiescence caused her to seethe inside, as did his overly formal treatment of her. He would know the discomfort it caused—he was too observant not to—and yet he continued with the behavior.

In the time that followed, if Nathaniel had declined to cease teaching Cianán his low thievery, Morrigan could not tell. What she could tell, and easily discovered once it had begun, was that Nathaniel had changed tactics. He still instructed the boy, yet now in a realm of martial skill.

She stumbled upon it as she walked from one library to another, one clue of eluvian crafting in one book having led to her a new one, which was inconveniently located on the opposite side of the city. However, when she noticed her son lined up with the numerous archers in their practice area, her clue and her hunt were set aside.

The boy held a smaller version of the bows the Arlathan archers used, an arrow nocked and drawn to his cheek, his eyes on the target in absolute concentration. He released the arrow almost as smoothly as the older archers, and it struck the target just outside the bullseye. That a warm flare of pride went through her at her son's ability did not matter. What mattered was that he possessed other, more powerful skills, and those were the ones he should be honing. These lessons were not necessary, and they squandered valuable time.

And that she did not interrupt Cianán when she pulled Nathaniel aside had nothing to do with her pride in her son. Nothing at all.

"I take it you object, my lady?" asked Nathaniel, not a hint of contriteness on his face.

"He does not need to be a common archer."

Nathaniel momentarily shifted his gaze over to the trees lining the central field. "Magic won't get him dinner out in the forest."

"It would if he took the wolf form he is perfecting."

"And if he wishes to hide from templars and needs to eat something more than mushrooms and berries? It's a skill and a disguise that will serve him well to have learned."

Presented with the practicality of the lesson, Morrigan could not argue. So she strode away, unwilling to grant Nathaniel the victory. What she did grant him, though she did not speak it aloud, was that he seemed to have a vested interest in the boy. For what purpose, she did not know, yet it did not seem to be malevolent, and it rendered him and his behavior bearable.

He was, at times, tolerable. Such was her opinion of Nathaniel.

**Líadan **

"I thought this was yours, Mamae," Cáel said as Líadan handed him the ring.

"It was only mine to hold until it could be given to you." She folded her son's fingers over the ring resting in the palm of his left hand. "Morrigan gave it to your father, a long time ago. After Morrigan left for Arlathan, your father gave it to me for safekeeping. And now I'm giving it to you."

He opened his fingers to examine the ring, tracing the details with a finger from his right hand. "What does it do?"

Malcolm sighed. "You know, sometimes, it wouldn't be a bad thing for you to be less clever."

Cáel rolled his eyes. "Anyone knows that most rings that mages or Wardens have come with some sort of rune or enchantment." He pointed at the ring Malcolm had long since worn on his finger instead of next to the Warden pendant on his necklace. "Yours helps heal you. Uncle Alistair's helps keep him safe from magical attacks. I could come up with more examples, if you want."

"No, we get the idea." Malcolm shifted in his seat next to Cáel. "To be honest, I'm not sure what it does anymore. It might not do anything. At most, it will help Morrigan find whoever wears it on their finger—if Morrigan was on Thedas. But she's not, so there you go."

"So why give it to me? I don't know Morrigan. She isn't my mother, not really. Mamae is."

"She was your mother for the first three months you were alive," Líadan said softly from her place on Cáel's other side. "And she loved you enough to find another mother for you before she left you here with your father. You know this story. We've told you before." She held her hand out toward him. "Let me put it on and I'll give you an answer that you might accept."

With a sigh that rivaled Malcolm's, Cáel handed her the ring and the simple silverite chain it was strung on, and allowed Líadan to fasten it around his neck. With the clasp being the weakest point, Bethany had enchanted it to ensure it wouldn't break.

Líadan felt like rolling her eyes herself at her son's theatrics, but she didn't. "We felt that it would be a good for you to have something of hers. Even if you don't think of her as your mother, or would treat her as one if you ever got to meet her, she was still someone very important in your life, for however short a time she was in it. Maybe the ring will help keep you safe. Creators know, half the things your father and I have been through likely would've killed us ages ago. Maybe the ring had something to do with it."

Cáel lifted the chain and studied the ring again. "So, better safe than sorry?"

Malcolm dropped to his back on his son's bed. "Would it _kill_ you to be outwardly sentimental more than once every three months?"

"I was sentimental twice last week."

After that remark, Líadan knew if she made eye contact with Malcolm, she would laugh. Malcolm just put an arm over his face and muttered under his breath, and Líadan was fairly certain it was about his own mother getting even for everything Malcolm had put her through when he was a child.

"In answer to your question, yes," Líadan said to Cáel. "Now, is there anything else you'd like to ask, or are you done for tonight?"

"I'm not sure." Cáel pulled his legs up onto the bed and crossed them, poking at a new hole in his sock. "Did you say goodnight to Ava already?"

"Yes," Malcolm said somewhat warily, the question bringing him back to sitting up. "Why?"

"She told me today that she's been having nightmares. I wasn't sure if you knew."

And if Cáel had passed along the information without a great deal of prompting, it meant he thought something was wrong. "We know," Líadan said. "She keeps coming to sleep with us instead of her own bed."

He wrinkled his nose. "I don't do that anymore because it's too crowded. Then it gets warm and if I want to sleep, that's almost as bad as the nightmare for keeping me awake. I figured out that I could get Revas to sleep in my room if I need to feel safer. She stays on the floor and I get to stay in my own bed."

"How would you feel about teaching your sister that trick?" asked Malcolm.

Líadan shot her bondmate a glare that he entirely ignored. While she'd had the same thought, she hadn't said it out loud. It _did_ get too warm to sleep comfortably if one or both the children joined them. It wasn't uncomfortable enough to deny them the reassurance they needed—so long as it didn't become a habit—but it did get overly warm.

"I did," said Cáel. "She said she doesn't think Revas could help stop the things after her."

"What sort of things?" Malcolm's tone had taken on a sharp edge, one that Líadan understood.

"She wouldn't say. When I kept asking, she went all quiet and wouldn't answer. Maybe she'd tell you, if you asked." He looked up from his systematic unraveling of his sock. "Do you think they're demons?"

"It's possible," said Malcolm.

"If it's them, can't you go into the Fade and kill them?"

"I could," said Líadan. "It would take a lot of work, and possibly a lot of travel, but I could go into the Beyond and kill them. But even if I did, there would be more. There would always be more."

As if he couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, or how to expend whatever nervous energy that had taken him, Cáel left his sock alone and switched to rubbing his finger along the side of the ring they'd given him. "It's because of the magic, isn't it?"

"Yes." Líadan wished she could have given him a different answer, one with a real solution.

"I'm glad I'm not a mage."

Malcolm chuckled lightly. "Even though she believed you wouldn't be one, Morrigan would have despaired to hear you say that."

With the seriousness only a child could muster, Cáel said, "Then she should know better. I think it's too hard."

Líadan imagined Morrigan's face if she'd heard what Cáel had just said. She barely managed to restrain her laughter, even with the gravity of the conversation.

"I do, too," said Malcolm.

But Cáel had moved beyond mere seriousness to becoming genuinely upset. "I wish Ava didn't have it. It isn't fair." Then the frustration he'd been holding in came out in a rush. He slid off the bed, throwing his hands in the air as he stalked about his room. "And I can't help her. I'm her brother. I'm supposed to keep her safe and I can't. I just have to watch."

"I know," said Líadan. "So do we."

He sat down hard on the chair by the window. "It isn't fair."

"No, it isn't. Magic, I've learned, even as someone without it, is never fair," said Malcolm. "But you can still help your sister. What you can do is watch out for others. Make sure she doesn't do anything that will let others know she has magic. And make sure neither of you say anything, either."

Cáel nodded. "I can do that." Then he got up and headed for the door, as if he'd go start right then.

Malcolm intercepted him and directed him toward his bed. "You can start tomorrow. Right now, it's bedtime."

After he was tucked in and they were about to leave, Cáel asked one more question. "Can Revas sleep in here?"

"I'll ask her," said Líadan, suspecting she already knew what Cáel's nightmares would be about—not being able to keep his sister safe. When she opened the door, Revas was already outside, as if she'd known. Once the doorway was clear, she bounded into the room and settled in at the foot of Cáel's bed. Líadan wasn't sure if her mabari's insight reassured her or frightened her. Maybe a little of both.

Malcolm said nothing as they walked the short distance down the corridor to their own rooms. She knew he wanted to discuss what was happening, and she knew they needed to, but she still didn't have the courage to face it down. They'd done all they were supposed to, everything that would have been done in a Dalish clan. When a young Dalish elf found out they had magic, they were apprenticed. If the Keeper had a First, they were not made a First, but apprenticed nonetheless. Mages had to be trained, guided, helped because of the power within them and the unique dangers they faced because of them. From the very beginning, before their raw magical ability grew into too much a temptation for spirits, those with the Gift were taught control. The time they had before the spirits were truly drawn to them was critical in establishing a young mage's will to remain themselves. And now, before Líadan had even had time to truly comprehend that her daughter had the Gift, it appeared that Ava wouldn't be granted that brief respite from the hounding of dark spirits.

Only when the outer door had closed, and the inner door of the bedroom had closed after, did Malcolm finally speak. "So, do you want to talk about it now?"

"No."

He sighed, glanced at the bed, seeming like he wanted to climb in, but then elected to stand. "At least you're honest. I mean, it isn't like I want to talk about it, either. Frankly, I'd like to stick my head in the sand and pretend none of this is happening. But it keeps getting worse and I can't help thinking…" he trailed off and looked in the direction of the children's rooms.

Like Malcolm had surely intended, he'd pulled her into a conversation. It was a particular talent he had, when it came to her. "Thinking what?"

"If it had to do with what happened when she was born. While she was born? I'm not sure how to describe it."

"You mean the part where the demon tried to possess me? And then tried to go through me to get to her, and that's what started the early birth?"

He made a circling motion with his hand. "Yes to all of that."

"It's a thought."

"I know. I said so, right before I started in with the talking that you didn't want to do. And that you still don't want to do, apparently, given the look you're giving me right now."

She hadn't meant to glare. She hadn't even realized she was until Malcolm had mentioned it. Tiredness seeped into her, and she climbed onto the bed. Then she laid on her stomach and pressed her face on the quilt, as close to sticking her head into the sand as she could get with what she had.

"What's this?" came Malcolm's voice over the thump of him removing his boots. "Now you're illustrating what I'm saying? I'd object, but this could be used for other applications. Or I'd say something about the taking off of shirts, but you didn't even bother taking off your boots, which is very unlike you. Something about not wanting dirt on your sheets, even if it's invisible dirt—which is cheating, by the way, because there's no such thing as invisible dirt. In fact, the last time you were so exhausted that you fell asleep with your boots on when you didn't have to, you were—I suppose it could've been Kirkwall, maybe, since we weren't entirely sober. All right, I wasn't entirely sober but you were fine. No, I was sober. Just feeling extra pleasant. But still, last time you were—" He stopped, and she could hear the rustle of his clothes as he crouched next to the bed to bring his face down to hers. "You aren't, are you?"

Had her eyes been open, she would have rolled them. She did, however, open them and turn to see him. His panic and puzzlement was endearing. "Of course I'm not."

He hopped onto the bed next to her, and then disappeared from her view as he set to work removing her boots. "You know, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed."

"We've discussed this." Annoyed that she couldn't see him, she rolled over. He didn't acknowledge it, still tugging on her boot, but she went on. "Even though the augmented Joining potion from Avernus reversed or mitigated many of the downsides of being a Warden, including fertility, it doesn't change the whole elven guilt about having elf-blooded children. That I have one is difficult enough, and now she's shown that she has magic. If I had another—" She bit down on her words, not wanting to speak them lest she tempt any sort of fate, or give _Asha'belannar_ any more ideas.

With a grunt of triumph, Malcolm freed her first boot and then flung it to the other side of the room. "I know," he said as he went for the second boot. "I was joking. Mostly."

She raised an eyebrow. "Mostly?"

"Yes, mostly. I'm being honest. If it was something that didn't go against your beliefs, and something you wanted, I'd like another. Maybe two, I don't know." With another grunt, he sent her second boot following the first. Then he fell back to lie next to her. "In another situation, with both of us human or both of us elves, would you be opposed?"

Ever since they'd all discovered that the augmented potion had changed Warden fertility for the better, the subject of more children occasionally came up. But she couldn't shake the views she'd been taught and had held since childhood. They were rules that kept the elves from dying out, and she didn't feel like she should break them. Ava had been planned, but not by them. Only _Asha'belannar_'s interference had made Ava's creation possible, along with some key missing information from a certain Warden-Commander. With Avernus' potion, they'd been told quickly enough what could happen, which meant Líadan had taken the precautions she would've taken in the first place, had they not been Wardens. She was glad she did, because Alistair and Anora had proven soon enough that Warden fertility had improved when Anora had Callum. Yet, for Líadan, there were just some taboos she couldn't break. Faced with an elf-blooded daughter having the Gift, she could see why they needed to exist. Malcolm understood, as well as he was able, and only a few times did he wander into this sort of speculation. She didn't hold it against him, just as he didn't hold her choices against her.

"I don't know," she said out loud. "I really didn't _like_ carrying a child. My body didn't move like it was supposed to, there were too many visits to the privy, my balance was off, and I couldn't even walk properly close to the end."

The bed shook with his laughs. "You waddled."

"I did not."

"Go on believing that, if you'd like."

"I will. The point I'm making is that if our situation were different, you'd have to do some very good convincing for me to volunteer to have another." She sighed and sat up, searching for where she'd put the light linen clothes she wore for bed. With as often as Ava had been sprinting to their room due to nightmares lately, it wasn't like she could go to sleep without them. The clothes were on a chair on the far side of the room, and she grumbled as she got out of the bed to fetch them. When she returned, Malcolm had already changed into his loose linen trousers, and had apparently elected to go shirtless, because he liked to torture her like that. "That isn't going to convince me," she said. "Nice try, I'll admit."

He smiled. "No, no convincing. You indulge my flights of fancy, and that's enough. I do think, however," he said as he looked closely at her face, "that you're too tired for anything right now, aside from sleeping."

She wanted to argue. She did, because he was right there, looking all lovely and her eyes kept wandering to his broad shoulders, and she forced herself to not follow the lines of his body downward, and she had no idea how Marian Hawke had endured this sort of temptation with Sebastian every night. None. For Líadan, tiredness won out, both mental and physical, and nothing more than that. Once in bed, she did get as close to him as she could, enjoying the feel of his bare skin.

"So," he said, managing to catch her right as she was about to fall asleep, "when do you want to talk about Ava?"

She squinted up at him, slightly annoyed at his timing. "Let me sleep on it. Even if I'm not ready to talk about it tomorrow, I will. You're right. It needs to be discussed, and we'll need to talk to Perran to get his opinion on what might be going on."

"That's fair," he said with a nod. "Now, I say we get some sleep before the child in question drags us out of our pleasant dreams only to scare us with hers."

"I was _almost_ asleep, you ass." Even as she tried to sound irritated, she could only manage tired. And despite her words, she laid her head on his chest, reassuring herself with the steady rhythm of his heart.

His arm slipped around to her back and massaged between her shoulder blades, where knots often formed from using her bow. "It's the only guaranteed way to get a direct answer from you. Means you're too tired to prevaricate, and that your primary goal is to go to sleep, and not avoid a question."

"You're still an ass." There was more, but she was too sleepy and Malcolm had already relaxed one knot and had moved to another and she didn't want him to stop. "But I don't care."

He laughed quietly, and it rumbled through his chest. She fell asleep before he'd finished laughing.

In the Beyond, things weren't so pleasant. Feynriel was there, almost like he'd been waiting for her to show up. Which was strange, when she thought about it, because he hadn't visited for ages. The last time he'd visited, which had been a few years ago, he'd told her that she had always been hard to find, and he'd barely been able to find her then. She hadn't seen him since.

And now he stood here. If the image of himself that she saw in the Beyond reflected any of what he was on Thedas, his features had become those of a grown man instead of the boy-like qualities they'd had before. It stood to reason he could be a spirit, but unless the spirit was rather bad at trickery, she'd never been able to tell right away.

"How were you able to find me?" she asked.

"You were around the eluvian again," he said. "Enough for it to let me find you this once." He gave her a sheepish, yet subdued smile. "Well, it took more than a few days, but considering I hadn't been able to find you at all before, it's something." Then his smile faded, and by the time the figure of her grandfather had come to stand beside him, Feynriel's smile had gone.

Emrys had no smile at all.

Neither did Líadan. "Why are you here? Feynriel's always been the one to speak with me here."

"Not this time," said Feynriel. After a long, sad look in her direction, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her grandfather.

His even expression had not changed. "You will not like what I have to say."

"I rarely like what you have to say." Yet, even when they disagreed—which was often—a comment like she'd just made would bring at least a hint of amusement to his eyes.

This time, it failed to do so. He remained as somber as before, and when he spoke, his tone carried the same trait. "Your daughter is a Dreamer."

"No." The fear she'd felt when she'd first suspected Ava's magic had nothing in comparison to the dread that now threatened to suffocate her. It couldn't be possible that Ava was, not her—it couldn't. Feynriel had spoken of his difficulties before he'd gone into proper training, and he'd been much older than Ava. "No," she said again, fooling herself no more than she fooled Emrys. The demons, it would explain the demons and the nightmares. The guilt she carried twisted inside her, sending her stomach churning and her sense of self into dark places. If what her grandfather said was true—_it is_, her instinct told her and she wanted to shove it away—not only had she denied the People another mage, but she had denied them a Dreamer. Then her abject fear for her daughter ousted the guilt, for the guilt meant nothing compared to what torment her daughter would face. If the Chantry ever discovered her, got their hands on her, or she didn't get proper instruction, she would either die or be made Tranquil. "Tell me you're wrong."

The sympathy in his gaze told her the truth in ways his words never could, even as he said them. "I cannot."

Líadan couldn't begin to think of how she could protect her daughter, not for something like this. She couldn't even think of what to say, the denial refusing to be said out loud.

Because Emrys understood, he continued the conversation for her. "Feynriel and I can protect her, for now. It cannot be sustained indefinitely, but we've some time to work with." He took a step forward and hesitantly placed his hands on her shoulders, either to reassure her or rouse her from the dark spiral of her thoughts. "She can be saved."

"How?" Fear enveloped her heart. Ava was her daughter, and she couldn't see how she could save her.

"When the time comes, take Cáel and Ava and go to the Mahariel. Marethari would never turn you away, two human children or not. Find Merrill. Take her from Kirkwall and bring her with you. In as short a time as they can, the Ra'asiel clan will meet you where the Mahariel camp, and you will accompany Lanaya and her clan to where mine has located. The Suriel do not move as often as other clans, and to do this, we are quite distant from the rest of civilization." He took his hands from where they rested on her shoulders, and then stepped back, awaiting her response.

She stared at him. "So, what you're really saying is that you're a malevolent spirit, because my grandfather would never agree to take in two human children, kin of his or not, much less teach one of them."

If her accusation hurt him, his expression did not betray it. "She is a Dreamer. She is your daughter, and you are my granddaughter. My responsibility to guide her is far greater than the responsibility I had to teach Feynriel." He seemed to be done, and then suddenly added one more thing: "And your human bondmate cannot accompany you."

It was an effort, she believed, to make the deal appear more realistic. She wouldn't fall for it. "Changing your terms doesn't change what you are, spirit."

Pain at the distrust passed over his face, but he quickly regained the steady, composed presence of a Keeper. "_Da'len_, I have given this information to you, and with it, I have given you a path to refuge. It is up to you to choose what you do with it." He paused to look around them at the formless Beyond, empty of wandering spirits aside from their own. Líadan couldn't shrug off her suspicion, and Emrys noticed. "Your strength of will is to be commended. However, if you—"

Líadan was flung from the Beyond as she was torn from her slumber by an upset child crawling into her parents' bed. The fog of sleep fled Líadan's mind as she held her trembling child. She asked her what was wrong, and all Ava could get out was something about bad dreams.

Knowing exactly what sort of bad dreams they were, Líadan fought her own fearful trembling. She was a Dalish hunter, a Grey Warden, someone who fought the monstrous creatures that filled the nightmares of others, all without blinking in the face of it. Yet this nightmare was not of those creatures, and she had no defense against it. No matter how much she wanted to believe it had been a spirit—and not her grandfather—she'd spoken to in the Beyond, she couldn't unravel the thread of truth woven into his words.

**Riordan**

The pitiful soul that had been the Grey Warden once known as Riordan fell to Corypheus' assault rather quickly, the unfortunate man's consciousness subsumed by the magister's stronger one. He'd left the abominable Warden prison, the place where his lessers had manacled him for far too long. Now he wandered the meticulously built dwarven roads covered with rot and filth, which served as more evidence of his betrayal. These dwarven byways were as black and corrupted as the Golden City he had been promised.

Now he would get even. Now he had found his brother, as if he had been waiting for him, and they had much to do. Filthy though they were, the darkspawn would obey their commands, and they could be used. Mindless, yet biddable. It was enough.

"I know where the remaining gods sleep," he said to his brother, his body as sickly and twisted as the one Corypheus had possessed when he'd been released. The body he now inhabited wasn't much improved.

His brother, who forgotten his name, yet remembered his role as architect, would have lifted an eyebrow, if not for the golden mask that covered his eyes. "They must be awakened."

"They will be tainted, as we are. They will destroy all those who dwell above us."

"I do not care. I tried to save them. Each time, they rejected me. We will bring them to an end and rule the surface as it should be."

"It can be done, yet first we must reach our remaining gods where they slumber beneath the rock. It will take time."

The Architect gave his assent. He understood, as Corypheus did.

Time, they had.

All the time they could ever need.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and her betrayal, and her death."

—_Spirit of Brona_

**Malcolm**

As Malcolm watched his two children attempt to pummel each other with wooden practice swords in the sparring ring—empty of Wardens this late in the afternoon—he realized they were more evenly matched than he'd previously seen. Which, he also noticed, brought no end of irritation to both children. While Ava seemed to be a hair faster, Cáel was stronger. It meant that when he managed to catch her unawares, she usually tumbled into the dirt, the grass, or the mud, depending on where in the ring she fell. Then she'd bounce back, angrier than before, and redouble her efforts. Her goal, as it was obvious to Malcolm, was to knock her brother onto his own backside. Sitting across from him on the top rung of the fence, Líadan had already pressed her lips into a line as she braced for Ava to either triumph over her brother, collapse into a helpless heap of frustration, or entirely let loose her anger. No matter which, there would probably be tears.

The past month had been a pleasant break from the appearance of tears, with Cáel having been decent to his sister most of the time, and Ava's nightmares having faded to none at all. Sadly, there was no chance of it continuing for the months to come. Malcolm well knew that Cáel and Ava only had so much control when it came to being constantly nice to each other. Malcolm remembered that he and Fergus had been the same way growing up, and still weren't above such behavior, even as adults.

"I think," Nuala said quietly from near the door to the compound, "when she blows up this time, we might have to use one of Shianni's terms to describe it."

Malcolm glanced back at her. "You mean the one where she says that she's lost her sodding shit?"

"That's the one."

"Yeah, I think that's where we're headed." Then he returned to watching the sparring, just in time to see Ava get under Cáel's guard, get a foot on his instep, and pivot to finally throw him. Malcolm started to think they might get through the rest of the day without tears or bloodshed, after all. Which meant Cáel then swung wildly with his sword as he tried to keep his balance, and landed a lucky hit that caught Ava's unsteady shoulder, which promptly knocked her into the only patch of mud in the yard.

Cáel, to his credit, looked mortified instead of triumphant, because he certainly well knew that the point should have gone to Ava.

"Sovereign says she decks him," Fergus said from his seat next to Malcolm.

On the belief that maybe, _maybe_ Cáel would choose to avoid a fight, just once, Malcolm took the bet. "All right. Maybe Cáel won't be so stubborn."

"Right, and tomorrow the Chantry will accept mabari into the priesthood."

"You never know."

Fergus chuckled softly, to which Malcolm grumbled under his breath.

"I'm starting to think he got more of the Theirin luck than she did," said Nuala. "And that he likes to push that luck."

Malcolm sighed, mostly because it seemed that Nuala was entirely right. Ava had also inherited tempers from both sides, and while it took a while to kindle, it showed at once as a roaring fire. Her practice sword forgotten, Ava ripped off her padded arming cap and threw it on the ground next to her wooden sword. Then she pushed herself to her feet and advanced toward her brother.

Cáel removed his arming cap and nothing else, and seemed torn over whether to retreat or stand his ground against his younger sister.

Cheeks flushed rosy from exertion and most certainly anger, Ava yanked off her gloves and tossed them behind her.

"Oh, gloves off. Time to intervene." Malcolm slid from his perch on the fence and started toward the children. Ava had moved well beyond her ability to keep her temper, and her fists had balled up as she closed in on Cáel. She didn't seem set on physical violence, however, because Malcolm felt the tingle of magic and knew it wasn't from Líadan. Which, really, was far more worrisome than a fistfight.

"Please don't hit your brother with lightning," he said to her once he was within range to catch either of them by the shirt, or to smite, if absolutely necessary. Líadan had promised not to kill him if he had to smite their daughter, but she hadn't discounted other methods of retaliation should a smite occur. Added that Malcolm really didn't want to smite any child, much less his own, the current situation had him praying that he wouldn't need to do it.

Ava's reply was courteous enough to inform her father that she had, indeed, lost her temper. "It won't kill him."

Of course she would think that a perfectly reasonable response. "It would still hurt. And lightning can kill. I've seen your mother use it to kill darkspawn." Along with templars and bandits and all sorts of Thedas' unsavory, but his six-year-old didn't need to know that.

"Can I hit darkspawn with lightning?" She did, at least, stop advancing on her brother.

"I'd prefer you'd run away if you see darkspawn."

"_You_ don't run away when you see darkspawn."

"That's because I'm a Grey Warden. You aren't. You're six. Why am I even having this conversation with you? Look, no hitting anything or anyone with lightning. Ever."

Her lips turned down slightly in her disappointment, even as she angrily flicked away a hank of hair that had blown into her eyes. Then she looked up at him and asked, "Ever?"

Her mother's child, through and through, he decided. "Not unless you're being attacked by something that could kill you, _and_ you can't run away. Your brother, to reiterate, doesn't count as said attacker."

A sigh, one sounding as distinctly haughty as a small boy could muster, came from Cáel's direction. When Malcolm looked over at his son, he found him standing with his chin held high and arms crossed determinedly over his chest. "She can't hurt me," said Cáel.

"That," Líadan said from the other side of the practice yard, "was all Morrigan."

Malcolm certainly couldn't deny that one. While Cáel didn't resemble Morrigan physically, taking after his Theirin side instead, there were moments when he said or did things that were distinctly similar to his natural mother. It wasn't often when he got indignantly haughty, but in the times he did, it made both Malcolm and Líadan mostly fondly remember Morrigan. Mostly.

Cáel sighed. "She can't, really. Not yet. Spell isn't strong enough."

Líadan raised an eyebrow at him as she strode across the yard toward them. "Just how do you know that?"

Apparently stricken by a moment of sibling solidarity, Cáel glanced at Ava, and then looked quickly away. "Guessed."

Today wouldn't be a tattling day, it seemed. Malcolm figured he should be more grateful for it than he felt, but the mystery of Ava's magic needed solving. And if she was using magic outside her lessons, or when he or Líadan weren't around, then it needed to be stopped. But to stop it, the happenstance needed to be acknowledged.

Líadan had already knelt in front of Ava, placing ungloved hands on her slim shoulders. "What happened?"

Fright sapped the color from her cheeks, her disagreement with her brother as long forgotten as the wooden practice sword at her feet. Her small foot scuffed at the trampled grass as she studied the ground. "I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to what?"

Ava shrugged and kept her eyes on the grass.

Líadan moved one of her hands and tucked a finger under Ava's chin, gently drawing her daughter's head upward to meet her eyes. "You need to tell me what happened." Despite the firmness of her words, there was no anger behind them, only concern.

"It was my fault," said Cáel. "We were playing hide and seek with Dane, and Ava was 'it,' and I caught her by surprise before she could find me. I know you aren't supposed to surprise mages, but I forgot that she was one, right until then. She yelped and hit me with lightning. Just a little! Didn't really hurt. But it wasn't her fault. I shouldn't have scared her."

As Cáel talked, Ava had moved closer to Líadan, ducking into the protective space within her mother's arms. The burning Malcolm had thought he'd left behind after the calm of the past month returned to his chest. He glanced worriedly over at the main part of the palace he could see just beyond the roof of the compound, and then looked at his son. "Did Dane see?"

Cáel looked absolutely stricken, swallowing several times as he tried not to say what he knew he had to. "Yes."

There was a thump as Fergus slid from the fence to plant his feet on the ground. Readying himself, Malcolm knew. He wished he were wearing more than a brigandine, but one really didn't require full armor to give arms lessons to small children. "When?" he asked Cáel.

"Right before we ate at midday."

It was nearly suppertime, which meant there was no possible way Alistair and Anora did not know. Which meant that at any time, one of them, probably Alistair, would be paying a visit.

He wasn't wrong. Barely minutes had gone by—minutes spent with Nuala cursing, Líadan helping a quaking Ava out of her practice padding, Cáel doing the same with his own padding, Fergus pacing along the fence, and Malcolm scrabbling for a single way to make sure their lives wouldn't be irrevocably changed—before the door from the compound opened. It shut quietly, and then Malcolm recognized Alistair's footsteps.

"Malcolm, Dane told me—" Whatever Alistair had been about to say went unsaid when he reached the fence and saw his niece and Líadan. "Maker, I'm sorry."

Malcolm traded looks with Fergus, who was next to the fence and within reach of Alistair, and then Fergus grabbed Alistair's wrist. It was just in case Alistair had strange ideas about which meant more, family or kingdom. Revas growled lowly from her spot next to Nuala.

With shock and hurt in his eyes, Alistair slowly looked down at Fergus' hand, and then over at Malcolm. "I'm not here to take her, and there's no one coming for her, either. Maker's blood, she's my niece. I'm not going to just pick her up and throw her to the Chantry."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because we have to figure out what to do. They were playing in the palace, within earshot of ten different guards and staff. We don't know how many heard or saw, or if any did at all. We think no one did, because there aren't any templars banging on the palace gate and demanding entrance, but we can't know for sure. But you and I both know that it's only a matter of time before something gets back to them. Days or weeks, at best. We need to strategize, and quickly."

"That last part sounds like something Anora would say," said Fergus.

"It _is_ what Anora said. She's keeping Dane entertained to prevent him from accidentally telling anyone else."

After a nod, Fergus let him go.

Maybe there was a chance, then, thought Malcolm. The need to strategize meant they weren't automatically expecting Ava to be handed to the templars. Maybe Cauthrien's last report on the status of Ferelden's army and navy had been remarkably good, meaning they could risk thumbing their collective noses at the Chantry, and more importantly, not be asked to turn Ava over.

"Uncle Alistair," Ava said from where she hadn't moved from Líadan's arms, "am I going to be taken away?"

"No," said Líadan. "Never."

"Absolutely not," said Malcolm.

"Of course not," said Fergus.

Alistair said nothing.

His brother, his very own brother, said _nothing_, and the tiny hope Malcolm had let live shriveled and died. It wouldn't be so much a strategy meeting as it would be a negotiation. He wanted to hit his brother. Hard. Many times, because this was family and decent people didn't even begin to think about handing their own nieces or nephews over to the Chantry when they knew exactly what could go wrong in the Circle. But he didn't hit Alistair, because the example he'd be setting for his children by hitting his brother while outside the sparring ring would be a bad one. He didn't hit Alistair, because Cáel and Ava were already going through enough, and to see their father hit their uncle in earnest would make everything that much harder to understand.

Fergus didn't let the silence go unchecked. "No answer is the same as condoning it, Your Majesty." His steady look toward the King—normally as close as a brother to him, but his use of Alistair's title signaled that it might not remain so—gave no quarter. "You might want to rethink your lack of one."

Alistair blinked, as if the idea hadn't crossed his mind. Then he turned from Fergus to answer Ava directly. "I'd never send you to the Chantry or give you to the templars. Not ever, I promise. I was just… I was trying to think of a way to resolve this and I kind of got caught up in my thoughts. I still don't think anyone else saw, because I think we'd have seen the templars by now, but I don't want to risk being wrong about that. It would get… messy."

"You mean bloody," said Cáel. "There would be a fight. A real one."

"Yes," said Alistair.

"People could die."

Malcolm shifted in discomfort at Cáel's statements, but addressed them. "Yes."

"I don't want anyone to die," said Ava. Which, given the murderous intentions Ava had shown toward her own brother earlier, seemed a bit disingenuous. Since she was only six, Malcolm gave her a pass and did not mention it.

"Neither do we," said Alistair. "That's why we're trying to come up with other ways."

"And why you and Cáel are going to stay here in the compound until we know the templars aren't coming for you," said Malcolm.

Alistair hopped the fence and started toward the center of the practice yard, from where Líadan and Ava hadn't yet moved. Halfway to them, Alistair stopped. "You all right if I come closer?" he asked Ava.

"I think so," she said.

Malcolm felt a little better. Normally, Ava and Alistair shared a good relationship, and seeing her even remotely afraid of her uncle was unsettling.

Alistair looked over at Líadan, who'd yet to budge from where she crouched, her arms still encircling her daughter. "You aren't going to… do anything to me, are you?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Not in front of the children, I won't." Mostly, Malcolm could see, she was kidding. But the threat was there, too. Either of the children were more important to her than Alistair, and she wouldn't hesitate to use force to stop him if he ever became a threat to them. Despite wishing he didn't, Malcolm felt the same way.

"You're more than a little scary right now," said Alistair.

"With good reason, Your Majesty," said Nuala. Her use of Alistair's title while in private said as much as Fergus' decision to do so—Alistair somehow held the potential of being a threat, and they used titles to put distance between them and him.

"I know that," said Alistair. "Doesn't stop me from being scared."

After giving Alistair a long look, Líadan moved her arms back to give Ava the choice about approaching her uncle. Alistair crouched down to Ava's level. The little girl hadn't yet moved as she fixed Alistair with nearly the same measured look her mother had given him. "You're the King," she said, sounding remarkably solemn. "Can't you stop them?"

"I'll use every bit of my kingly power to do so," said Alistair. What the other adults knew, and Alistair didn't say, was that his power as king might not be enough.

His answer mollified Ava, and she darted over to give Alistair a hug. She let go rather quickly, and then stepped backward until she bumped into Líadan, who had stood up. Líadan put her hands on Ava's shoulders, and that seemed to reassure her.

Alistair nodded, and then straightened to his full height. "Let's meet in my study within the hour. Sooner the better, but I know you'll need… time to arrange things, in case everything goes pear-shaped." Then he left as quietly as he'd appeared, the seriousness of the situation dampening even Alistair's spirits.

"This is bad, isn't it?" Cáel asked after the door closed. "And don't lie to me because I'm a kid. It isn't like I can't see what's going on. It's worse if you don't tell me."

"It's bad," said Malcolm.

Cáel looked to Líadan for confirmation.

She nodded.

At first, he seemed calm as he took in their answers, but then his face fell. "Maybe you should have lied."

With one hand guiding Ava in front of her, Líadan used her other hand to draw Cáel to her side. She gently squeezed his shoulder as he leaned against her, using her as a crutch as he limped along with the realization that nothing would be the same as it was. "We need to get both of you inside the compound," she said as she brought them toward the door.

"The Wardens will protect me?" asked Ava.

"Of course they will," said Malcolm. "They're family." Then he picked her up, not caring if any mud got on his brigandine. She wound her arms around his neck and let her head drop to his shoulder, her hair just barely touching his chin. She smelled like dirt and grass and a rainy day that had sunshine at the end and maybe a little like wet dog. She was his daughter and he'd be damned if he let the templars take her.

Cáel hadn't moved from Líadan's side, even as they stood in the corridor leading to the compound's main hall. He'd grabbed one of his mother's hands, and though he held still, his grip was tight enough to blanch his knuckles white.

Bethany and Perran appeared at the end of the corridor, Oghren right behind them.

"I saw Alistair come in," said Bethany, "and then leave, and he looked—"

"Like he'd eaten the arse-end of a bronto and was trying to keep it down," said Oghren. "He only gets that look about one thing, and that's about them templars. We going to fight 'em again? I'll go sharpen my axe."

"Alistair knows," said Malcolm.

"Big sodding deal. He's her uncle. No problem there." When none of them agreed, Oghren's eyebrows crept upward. "Do I need to set the pike-twirler's priorities straight?"

"No, not this time," said Líadan. "It was a close thing, but you won't need your axe for him."

"I take it the templars aren't out of the question?"

"Not yet," said Malcolm. "Líadan, Fergus, and I need to meet with Alistair and Anora to figure out where to go from here. Alistair doesn't think the Chantry knows, mostly because they haven't showed up. Since it's so soon, it's probably better safe than sorry. So, don't let any templars in, or even any Chantry representatives at all."

"We'll guard the nuglets like they were our own," said Oghren. "Where's that big sodding dog of yours, elf?"

Revas nosed through the crowd of people, Nuala right behind her. "I'll watch over them," she said to Malcolm and Líadan. Then she motioned to both children. "Come on. We'll go find some heartwarming books in the library. Then we can eat supper with the Wardens." Cáel switched from holding Líadan's hand to holding Nuala's, and then Ava slid from Malcolm's arms to take Nuala's other hand while Revas stayed right next to the children. Perran went to step toward them, and then paused to trade a silent look with Líadan before he trailed after Nuala and the children.

Malcolm and Líadan watched them go up to the stairs, and didn't leave the compound until the children were out of their sight. Just in case.

"It's hard, leaving them to be protected by others," said Fergus as they walked through the compound's storeroom.

As he opened the door leading to the palace proper, it took Malcolm a second to see where his brother was going with it, because the pain of event in question had faded over the years. "_Maker_, Fergus. Why don't you just hit me over the head next time?"

"I simply meant that I understand, and I think they'll be all right. They've got Wardens protecting them in a Warden stronghold, and it isn't like the Wardens aren't able to be suspicious of everyone, even when it doesn't warrant it, but especially when it does. The compound is better protected than Highever, and if you could get to the Vigil, no one would ever to be able to—you know what I mean." Though Fergus had dropped his voice when they crossed into the palace, he gave up on specifics the moment the first guard came into view. By the time they passed the first servant, they'd resorted to silence for fear of letting anything slip. Malcolm was grateful to have Fergus there with them, for both his level-minded, steady presence, and his ability to reassure both of them even when there was little reassurance to be had. Also, because he was his brother, and though Líadan was only his sister-in-law, he treated her as a sister all the same.

"No matter what happens, little sister," Fergus said to Líadan as they prepared to enter the King's study, "the children will be kept safe."

Líadan gave Fergus a look that conveyed what Malcolm felt, as well. They wanted to believe what Fergus said to be true, but couldn't see how it could happen.

Then the meeting started poorly. Once the door had closed, no one, not even Anora, sat down. For the first few minutes, not one of them spoke.

Before the silence strangled them, Anora cleared her throat and took the initiative. "Standing here and gazing at our navels will not change what must be discussed. I will be honest: if we cannot find a suitable refuge, we may have to consider the Circle." No satisfaction appeared in her eyes when she made the pronouncement. Instead, there was a kind of regret Malcolm couldn't recall ever seeing in his sister-in-law. Even then, he had to remind himself that Anora was human, and that she and Alistair did have to consider the kingdom's well-being in addition to any of their family.

Still, it rankled.

"Then we had better find one," said Fergus, giving Anora a none-too-pleased look. "I have no problem with them staying at Highever. None at all."

Anora shook her head. "Like anywhere in Ferelden, once the Chantry discovered any noble or royalty harboring a known apostate mage, they would come. A few templars at first, and then when they are turned away, they will send more. Then they will send Seekers. We have seen for ourselves that they are willing to start a war over the fate of one apostate. Highever has already suffered for it. They cannot be allowed to do so again."

"That's my decision to make. My people would be willing to make the sacrifice. Malcolm grew up there. He's family, and so are his wife and children." Fergus gave Alistair a pointed look. "Family means a great deal in Highever, and Highever's banns and freeholders will do whatever they can to keep them safe."

Despite his brother's words, Malcolm knew the teyrnir would ultimately fall. There would be a siege. A siege would mean crops would rot in the fields instead of being harvested, if they even had the chance to plant them at all. The Bannorn had only recently begun to produce as much grain as they had before the Blight. For the Coastlands to halt their own production would be detrimental to the entire country. There would be no surplus to sell, which meant Ferelden's coffers would remain just barely sufficient. Whatever grain the Bannorn would be able to spare for the besieged Coastlands might not even make it through whatever lines the templars would set up. Eventually, the Chantry would win the fight. "They would," Malcolm said out loud, "but I can't see putting them through that when we would lose, in the end. Highever isn't the Vigil, and no matter how strong the rebuilt castle is, it would eventually fall."

Fergus leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Then the palace," he said after a moment of glaring at the floor. "It can withstand the sort of siege Highever cannot."

"It would bring the Chantry down on all Ferelden, and Ferelden cannot stand against them," said Anora. "The Circle—"

Líadan bristled from where she stood next to Malcolm. When she spoke, her tone was firm, yet held the note of anger ready to be loosed. "I am not sending my daughter to be kept prisoner by a barbaric shemlen institution."

Malcolm had opened his mouth to add his own dissent, but snapped it shut after hearing Líadan. She hadn't used the word _shemlen _in a very long time. He looked over at her in surprise.

She met his gaze, but her eyes held no apologies. "I won't."

"Then we are at an impasse," said Anora.

Alistair kept looking between his brother and Líadan, as if searching for a cleverly hidden compromise. "I don't much like the Chantry's stance on mages, but—"

"If you end that statement with anything about handing your niece over, then you like them well enough," said Malcolm.

"You can't hide her abilities for any longer than you already have, and neither can we. The Chantry will notice. And unless we're prepared as a country to break away from the Chantry—"

"Then do that!" Malcolm refused to feel bad about the shout. "Do it. It's been coming for ages. No one will be surprised. Most would cheer."

"I can't. _We_ can't." Alistair's eyes held a pleading desperation—a wish for a thing while knowing it out of reach. "We haven't the armies. Ferelden is still weak, even now, and you know that. We're lucky Orlais hasn't swooped down and scooped us up. Cauthrien believes we'll be ready in another couple of years. Then we can talk serious plans of doing what we can to protect our own in the ways we see fit. But that time isn't now."

"If we go to war with the Chantry," said Anora, "the outcome would be the same. Orlais would rule over Ferelden once again."

"Besides, even if we could, Ava would still need to be trained. And Líadan, I'm sorry to say, isn't strong enough to do so. Ava's connection to the Fade is too powerful, from what I felt."

"There are capable teachers other than those found in your Circles of Magi," said Líadan. "Perran and Bethany have already been helping."

Alistair sighed. "But they aren't teachers, not like fully harrowed Circle enchanters are trained to be."

Líadan's dark look toward Alistair wasn't missed by anyone in the room.

"What about Senior Enchanter Wynne?" Fergus asked before Líadan directly engaged Alistair in an argument about Dalish Firsts and Keepers. "She's had plenty of apprentices, and has taught classes."

Malcolm shook his head. "She'd tell us to hand Ava to the Circle."

"You can't be sure of that," said Alistair. "She's an Aequitarian, not a Loyalist."

"That doesn't matter. She handed her newborn son to the Chantry right after she gave birth to him," said Líadan.

"I think her son was more taken from her than given away, so—"

Anora stepped in between them. "Squabbling over these details gets us nowhere. We are looking for an equitable solution. If we are to move on, what we must do is acknowledge that such a solution is not available within Ferelden."

"I don't want them to leave Ferelden." Alistair seemed truly despondent as he said it.

"At this point, I believe our collective hands are tied on the matter, Alistair," said Anora.

She was right. And while Malcolm didn't like their limited options, either, they did at least have Hildur's offer in reserve. "So we'll go to the Wardens. Get assigned to one of their fortresses for however long it takes Ferelden to finish building up the army. A few years abroad, and then we can come home." It wasn't his favorite solution, but it seemed the best they'd get. Maybe it wouldn't be a terrible thing to travel for a little while. It would help the children gain more understanding of Thedas as a whole instead of only experiencing Ferelden.

"The Wardens don't have any mages who happen to be Dreamers," Líadan said in a remarkably subdued voice, given her earlier tone.

Alistair frowned. "I thought the only Dreamers known to be alive right now are Feynriel and Keeper Emrys. Why would you bring it up?" But there was enough willful disbelief within his question to indicate that he probably had a good idea about the answer.

Malcolm did have a good idea about it and he didn't want to hear it, yet he had to, because covering his ears was childish, and wouldn't change reality.

"Because a Dreamer is the only mage who can properly instruct another Dreamer," said Líadan.

"But there aren't any Dreamers in the Wardens, or in the Circle, or Ferelden at all," said Alistair.

"It seems," said Anora, "that there is now one in Ferelden who requires not only refuge from the Chantry, but a qualified teacher, as well."

Alistair did not hide his look of panic. "Which you can't find here, or anywhere, really."

Silence settled in as each of them avoided looking at each other. To look each other in the eye would mean acknowledging that the situation was far worse than any of them had really believed it could be.

Then Líadan said, "I'm bringing her to the Dalish."

"How?" asked Fergus. "I thought a Dalish clan wouldn't allow any humans, even children."

"Marethari is stubborn and stuck in her ways, but she wouldn't turn us away. Then we should be able to contact another clan, and we can travel with them to find Emrys and the Suriel."

Alistair raised his eyebrows. "Would he take her? I didn't think the Dalish—your grandfather in particular—were in the habit of teaching human mages, even if her mother happens to be Dalish."

"Emrys will agree if I bring her and…" Her jaw trembled, belying the tenuous grip she had on remaining outwardly calm. "And if Malcolm doesn't."

Malcolm stared at her, his mouth dry.

"You mean bring her there, right?" asked Alistair. "Ask the favor, stay for a visit, and then come back? Afterwards, the visits continue, because you'd both have to see her, and Cáel can't not see his sister. Maybe the Suriel could even camp close to Ferelden—"

"No," said Líadan.

As soon as Líadan had brought up the probability of Ava's rare talent, Malcolm had known this would be the result.

Alistair, however, had not been as clued in. "No?"

"I would be expected to stay."

Alistair's bewildered gaze shifted from Líadan to Malcolm and back. "How long?"

"The duration of Ava's training, which would extend through her childhood."

Malcolm's eyes widened. He'd expected lengthy, but not that. "It would really take that long?"

She looked up at him, her expression filled with a sad truth. "Training a strong mage the Dalish way is no small undertaking." Then she broke eye contact in favor of looking at the others, probably because it was slightly less painful. "Technically, Merrill, who is my age, was still a student when she was exiled, and she'd been Marethari's apprentice since she was four. Perran had been an apprentice since he was eight, and only once he became a Keeper with the Dalish Wardens did he leave it. With Ava being a Dreamer… I can't begin to predict how long training would be for her, aside from long and involved."

"So you would be leaving for pretty much forever is what you're saying," said Fergus.

She nodded, and Fergus let his head bump against the wall behind him as he took to studying the ceiling, muttering under his breath as he did.

"And there are no other instructors?" asked Anora.

"If they are, they're in Tevinter, which makes it less than an option," said Líadan.

Fergus ceased his study of the ceiling to engage in the conversation again. "What about Cáel? It couldn't be good for him to lose his sister and the only mother he's ever known."

Malcolm's mind kept shouting _what about me?_ But his concern over his son, much like the same concern over his daughter, drowned out his unspoken pleas. "If the Chantry had even the slightest suspicion that Ava was taken to the Dalish because she's a mage, they would come after Cáel. It isn't like they haven't already proven they're willing to use a flimsy excuse for it before." He knew it, they knew it, and he was certain Morrigan would say the same. He also damn well knew Morrigan would be advocating for the same incredibly painful course of action. She had proven her will and ability to do so when she'd left Cáel behind in capable hands when she'd gone through the eluvian. For Cael's safety, Morrigan would wish for him to go with Líadan and Ava. Malcolm couldn't even imagine what Morrigan would do if the Chantry got their hands on Cáel, nor would Morrigan's response be much different if the Chantry got Líadan. Though Morrigan often denied the connections she had to a select few, she did have them, and she guarded them fiercely.

"I wish I could disagree, but after what happened with Malcolm and the Chantry years ago, I can easily see it happening again." Alistair gave Malcolm a level look. "I'm surprised you brought it up, because that means—"

"I know what it means." Every word of the sentence tasted bitter, and sounded the same. "But the life and happiness of my children are more important than my own."

"I'm sorry." The resolution had gone from Líadan's voice, leaving sorrow in its wake.

He shook his head, his mind too much a mess to say anything properly.

Before the silence stretched onward again, Anora asked, "How will this be done?"

Fergus cursed once before he said, "It'll have to look like Líadan's leaving him."

Malcolm practically whipped his head around to Fergus. "What? But I wouldn't—she wouldn't—"

At the same time, Líadan said, "No, I wouldn't—"

"I _know_ you wouldn't," Fergus snapped, not unaffected by the turmoil. "Maker's blood, I'm not an idiot. I know you'd never, neither one of you, but not everyone knows you as well as we do. If you want any chance for the templars to not catch on very quickly, they'll have to think Líadan's left for a reason other than shielding two children from the Chantry."

"What do you propose?" asked Anora, somehow still shrewdly able to move their developing plans forward. Out of all of them, she had always been the best at being able to separate emotion from logic when it came to governing. It was a strength, and a necessary one, but Malcolm found it hard not to feel some resentment.

Fergus rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand before he dove in. "The Chantry's headed by Orlesians, we all know that. Like anyone else, Orlesians love stories, and they're especially fond of salacious stories involving nobility. Take that, and then add that we all have prejudices, even if we'd like to deny them. Those prejudices would allow for certain actions to be easily believed."

Malcolm could see where Fergus was going and he did not like it at all.

"This is going back to my being Dalish, isn't it?" asked Líadan.

"While Ferelden has been more open to viewing elves to be as civilized as humans or dwarves," said Anora, "even that openness has limits. One such limit is that the viewpoint does not extend beyond city elves to Dalish elves."

"People still tell stories. Not good ones," said Alistair.

"You mean how we prey upon hapless wanderers? Abduct naughty human children? Or are you talking about the stories where we practice dark magic and offer human sacrifices to our pagan gods?"

Alistair studied his feet instead of looking at Líadan. "Maybe some of those."

"Still?"

"It has much to do with the mystery," said Anora. "What one cannot see often becomes what one fears. Coupled with the story the Chantry tells of the Fall of the Dales, the fear many humans have of the Dalish is understandable."

"The Chantry _started_ that war." Before Anora could muster a defense, Líadan flung the truth at her and the rest of the humans in the room like rocks from a hunter's sling. "Like Tevinter did to Arlathan and _Elvhenan_, Orlais did to the Halamshiral and the Dales. My people isolated themselves from humanity so we could regain the old ways. Our borders were protected by the Emerald Knights, who initially did not use violence to keep out humans. They were told of our disinterest in trade or diplomatic ties, and yet they continued pushing, in greater and greater numbers. So they sent missionaries instead of traders. The missionaries were thrown out. Then they heard we were worshipping our Creators instead of their Maker, and they began spreading lies among the border towns and villages—that we abducted children and sacrificed them to the Creators. Lies you humans apparently still believe today. Then came the templars. With them came the allegations of atrocities committed against the humans at Red Crossing, and they finally got their war. My people wanted to be left alone, and the Chantry wouldn't grant us even that."

"I don't dispute your account," Anora said, her demeanor still calm, and surprisingly not defensive. "Yet, how many have heard that version? The Dalish, and perhaps some of the city elves. In other words, not enough, and the Chantry's version is what many see as the truth. They know no other, nor will they hear it if told."

"It means most humans are afraid the Dalish wouldn't think twice about doing the same again," said Fergus. His regret came across in his soft tone, but didn't change the truth in it.

"We aren't the danger," said Líadan.

Malcolm very carefully did not look over at Líadan, because he _knew_ what Líadan had done on the very same day that had ended with her becoming a Grey Warden—she and her hunting partner, Tamlen, had killed three humans they'd come across in the Brecilian Forest.

It wasn't fair for him to judge based solely on that, not with the additional details he had. The reasons she'd given for killing those humans were, in retrospect, very good ones, and based on a long history that Líadan had just explained. For every human who was permitted to leave came templars in return, which would inevitably result in elves being killed or driven away. It had happened so often, and for so long, that it was hard to argue against the actions Líadan and Tamlen had taken that day. Malcolm knew that, and yet part of him still wasn't entirely comfortable with it, possibly because other hunters in her clan had nearly killed him and those with him on the same day.

"We know you aren't the danger," said Fergus. "But others won't have known the Dalish as well as we have. So they'd see the Dalish not as civilized people, but as wild." He held up his hands at Líadan's glare. "Their words, not mine, and those same people would believe that the wild nature wouldn't just go away after, say, becoming a Warden or spending a significant amount of time around humans. In the end, those people would easily believe a Dalish elf having an argument with her human spouse, and then retaliating by taking the children and returning to the Dalish."

Fergus' idea had gone exactly where Malcolm thought it would. "So, what you're saying is that I do something stupid, and then try to right things and end up making it worse." Which, considering, wasn't out of the question. It'd already happened plenty of times during their relationship, but they'd always managed to work things out. "And instead of staying and letting me try to fix it, Líadan gets fed up, takes the kids, and goes back to the Dalish. Meanwhile, I'm left behind to think about what I did to lose what I had."

"That is an awful story," Alistair said to Fergus. "And not them, not really."

"To people who _know_ Malcolm and Líadan, it isn't," said Fergus. "Sure, he's said enough stupid things and done enough stupid things, but he always figures out how to make things better. While none of us would deny Líadan having a temper, each one of us knows she'll sit or stand patiently and listen to whatever explanation or apology Malcolm has—to be honest, out of anyone, Líadan has the most patience with him. But other people don't know that like we do. If rumors can be started and spread, then the unwitting gossipmongers will have most everyone believing it, especially foreigners."

The stillness in Anora's face said much about the discontent she had with the entire situation, even though she hadn't spoken it out loud. "Incredibly painful a plan to implement aside, it is a cover that will not last forever."

"No, but it'll give Líadan and the children a head start." Fergus waved his arm toward the north. "Maybe they'll get not just to the Dalish, but all the way to her grandfather, and the Chantry will never find them."

"Right, but neither would Malcolm." Alistair grimaced as he said it, and then looked at Líadan. "Would he be able to visit? Ever?"

Her brows drew together. "Maybe. If the Chantry isn't actively looking or is distracted, then I think Emrys could be convinced. While he wouldn't agree to a human living with the clan who wasn't either a Dreamer or the blood of _Asha'belannar_, I don't think he'd be completely opposed to visits. But it would be years before…" Her eyes became distant as the realization hit. "Creators, it could be years."

"It sounds better than not at all," said Alistair, "but it's still awful."

"The Crown will have to act like it is conducting a search," said Anora. "If we do not, the Chantry would think us complicit. Seekers would be sent again to gain their answers. Perhaps if we put Kennard in charge of a supposed search, he could lead the Chantry on a merry chase."

"He'd agree?" asked Fergus.

"He would do anything to protect the children," said Anora. "His employ is the Crown, but his service has always been to them. He would do it, and gladly."

"And what about Dane? He's too honest a boy for him not to mention what he saw, even if he means it innocently."

"We'll have to convince him that it was a trick of light," said Alistair. "I bet Bethany could conjure something up that would convince any non-mage. "

Anora's eyes had narrowed as she went over their strategy in her head, examining it from every angle in order to uncover and repair the faults. "Nuala will have to remain behind. Líadan leaving with the children as well as their nurse wouldn't ring quite as true to such a tale."

"If she went," said Alistair, "it wouldn't be fair to Dane and Callum, either. Losing their aunt and their cousins already, and then to lose their favorite nurse."

_Meanwhile_, Malcolm thought_, I'm losing everything in the name of keeping them safe and alive_. But he said nothing of it to anyone, unwilling to complain when there wasn't a viable alternative to offer.

"How much are you going to tell to Cáel and Ava?" Fergus asked.

Líadan pressed her lips into a firm line, an obvious effort to stay in control. "Nothing until after we've left."

"You should…" Anora started to say to Líadan, and then she hesitated.

Hesitated. Malcolm stared at her, roused from his own troubled thoughts. Anora never hesitated when she spoke.

She shook herself, almost imperceptibly, and managed to go on. "You should leave as quickly as you are able. Unfortunately, the longer you stay, the higher the chance of discovery before you can get away."

Líadan gave them the pronouncement as she looked out the window. "We'll be leaving tomorrow, just after first light."

Fergus sighed and glanced over at the door. "I'll go speak with Nuala and try to find Shianni. See what we can rustle up for trustworthy gossips."

"Trustworthy gossips?" asked Alistair. "How would that even work?"

"The Warden compound's entire staff. They're the best example of trustworthy gossips anywhere," said Malcolm. "They would never do anything to hurt the Wardens. They never reveal Warden secrets. They also do not reveal secrets held by Wardens, even if the secrets have nothing to do with the Order. But anything deemed harmless gossip—such as who was found in whose bed or what couple had the most recent shouting match—is considered fair game. They're also incredibly loyal to the Wardens and their families, if they have them. They—"

"They've known about Ava," said Líadan. It was, really, the most succinct argument any of them could have made for the loyalty of the compound's staff. If any of them had leaked the information, the templars would've been knocking at the compound's door weeks ago.

"I suppose that takes care of that," said Fergus.

Líadan tried to hide her increasing distress by focusing on the details, but the façade fell once any of them looked her in the eye. "You should still go talk to Nuala. Let her know that it's safe for her and the children to be in the palace—the family wing, at least. If they stay in the compound much longer, they'll get even more anxious than they already must be. And talk to Shianni, too, if you can get her to the compound—if Nuala and Rhian haven't gotten her there already. When it needs to, she can help the pertinent information get out faster."

Fergus gave Líadan a nod. "All right. I'll just—I'll see you before you leave, right?"

She smiled faintly. "Of course you will."

Then Fergus was out the door.

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit he'd had since the Blight. "Right. Right. Well, this is awful. Truly. And we can't let anything look out of the ordinary, which precludes any sort of gathering or real goodbyes, but we can't just leave it at this. How about… how about we raid the larder later? That's been known to happen on far more than one occasion. We can make our run before you're supposedly going to have that blow-out fight of yours. It'll be like the old days!"

"Alistair, the three of you raided the larder only five days ago," said Anora.

"There was Nevarran cheese in there. It needed to be liberated."

"To your stomach, you mean," said Malcolm.

"Oh, like you should talk," said Alistair. "You ate nearly as much of the cheese as I did, and don't even get me started on how you accosted the bread." He pointed at Anora. "You were there, too! I can never repeat how you acted with those lemon tarts." Then he was pointing at Líadan. "And you, you should really talk to someone about your little love affair with apples."

Líadan took an aggressive step toward Alistair. "Those were Brecilian apples! Do you know how hard it is to find them in human cities?"

"Very. And I happen to know there are some in the Palace's larder right now. So!" Alistair clapped his hands together. "I fancy a nice raid tonight. At the compound, given the situation, but I can grab some of the finer items from the Palace's larder to bring with me. How's an hour or so after the children are down for bed sound? I think that would work. It would…" His good cheer faded. "It would still leave you enough time to pack, get ready, whatever it is you'll have to do before… before you go."

"I think I'd like that," said Líadan.

"You could also procure food for your packs while you're there. I know you're a more than capable hunter, but one cannot overlook the necessity of reserves." Anora clasped her hands together in front of her dress. "Now, we must convince Dane that he did not see magic from his cousin this morning."

"We have to talk to Bethany, first," said Alistair. "You know, so she can concoct some sort of visual explanation. Maybe a potion or some sort of rune or scroll. That'd make him believe he didn't see anything."

"Then we should be on our way."

Alistair gave them an awkward smile as he followed Anora to the door. "Don't miss our date tonight. I heard there's some Tantervale cheese down there, too. Never tried that before." Anora reached behind her and took him by the hand to bring him outside, before he started to babble. It was a Theirin trait, where they talked without pause in an attempt to cover the awkward. It rarely worked, but they never stopped trying.

The door shut, and it was just the two of them. Malcolm took three steps away from the wall before he dropped heavily onto an armless chair and stared at nothing. Then Líadan was in front of him, slightly bent from the waist so that her face was level to his. She cupped his cheeks in her hands as she pressed her forehead to his. Even through the slight connection, Malcolm could feel the quavering in her chin, the same tremble he felt in his jaw, and the control it took to not give into it left them unable to say anything.

He wouldn't ask her to stay. It wasn't possible, and they both knew what they'd rather do over what they had to do. For him to ask would only serve to make a terrible situation worse. And yet he wanted to, for the faint hope that maybe she would, and he wouldn't have to watch his family leave in order to keep them safe.

It wasn't fair. It was terribly unfair and before he could stop, his objections spilled out in place of the things he wanted to say. "This isn't—we fought others and life and everything so hard to get this far, to _be_ together in the first place, and even that was after fighting with ourselves for months. And now we have to be apart because that's the way it has to be." The whisper was harsh, even to his own ears.

He wanted to close his eyes against the ugly truth around them, but he didn't want to squander any of the time he had left to see his wife. Bondmate, because she was Dalish and it was only one thing of many he loved about her. He wanted to see her eyes of a green color only a shade darker than what she'd given their daughter. He wanted to see her lips quirked in a smile when he said something she shouldn't find amusing, but did. He wanted to see the _vallaslin_ framing her face, enhancing her scowls and smiles both, the Dalish tattoo as much a part of her as anything, something that made her so very _her_. Then there were all the things he couldn't directly see. Bright and engaging, prickly and loving both, the woman he loved and the mother of his children and he did _not_ want to let her go.

And yet he had to, for the sake of those very children.

"This sucks," he said out loud.

Her lips quirked just like he thought they would. "Your eloquence continues to amaze me." Then she stepped back, moving her forehead away from his. Her hands dropped from his face, but she took one of his hands with one of hers, as unwilling as he was to entirely let go, not before they had to. "I wish there was another way."

"I think if there was, we would've found it by now."

"We would have, if Ava wasn't…" In her eyes, pain quickly gave way to the fear they both shared over what would happen to Ava if she didn't receive proper instruction.

"So you think the dream you had was true?" She'd told him the morning after she'd had it, and how she needed to think, very long and very hard, about the possibility of it being true. Both their instincts had said yes, given how quickly Ava had become the target of demons, but Líadan wanted to be as sure as she could possibly be before she did anything.

"I don't think I can convince myself that the disappearance of the demons was a coincidence. They haven't returned in the month since that night, and it's not like she could hide it from us if they had remained. And if she isn't and I bring her to Emrys, then he'll tell me the truth, and we can all take refuge with the Wardens, instead." Her tone didn't indicate she had any hope for that at all, but she said it nonetheless. They had to put forth the effort.

"Strange how that seems the happier option, now." They'd gone from preferring to stay in Ferelden to preferring to stay together as a family. Now both those options had been taken from them.

"More that it's slightly less painful than the worst alternative." Her thumb moved back and forth over the ring on his finger. In the Dalish tradition, she'd given it to him before their bonding. In return, he'd given her the bow she still used to this day, and Fergus had supplied one of the traditional Cousland family betrothal gifts—a necklace of a single ethereal silver strand, finely and delicately forged, and so old that no one knew who had forged it. He caught sight of it at the base of her neck only when the light touched it at certain angles. Otherwise, it was difficult to tell it was there. The chain that held her Warden amulet was much more prominent.

The necklace glinted in the light as she leaned slightly over to examine the ring, manipulating his fingers as she did. "You'll have to take this off."

"I'm not taking it off. It was the betrothal gift you gave to me. It isn't like you're going to stop wearing your necklace or using your bow."

Her eyes lifted to give him an irritated glare. "I meant from your finger. You can still wear it, but next to your amulet."

She was right, and he knew she was right, and yet he still had to hold back the urge to convince her otherwise. He sighed. "Better than the alternative, I suppose."

"You're impossible," she muttered as she removed the ring for him. "Honestly." Ring in hand, she moved behind him and untied his leather necklace, her fingers brushing across the nape of his neck as she did. Once the knot was undone, she threaded the ring onto the necklace, where it clinked dully against the Warden pendant, and then retied the leather string. One of her hands stayed on the back of his neck for a moment before she draped both her arms over his shoulders, and then her hands settled on his chest. Then she perched her chin on his shoulder before whispering, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "No. No apologies. No one's at fault, at least no one here, so you don't need to apologize for anything."

Her ensuing quiet was agreement enough. They both stared out the window, neither registering the view of the city as they tried to convince themselves that it would be all right, in the end. That this wasn't permanent. That this was only a brief interruption, and they would all be able to reunite after the danger had passed.

The lies they told themselves were so thick that it was like being suffocated.

Then Líadan spoke, bringing the air of distraction they needed. "Do you remember the first time we were nearly together?"

Despite everything that waited for them on the other side of the door, Malcolm smiled at the memory. "The one Oghren inadvertently interrupted?"

"I was mad at him for _days_."

"I thought you hadn't planned it?"

"I hadn't. Doesn't mean I didn't like where it was going before it was cut short." Then her lips were delightfully close to his ear. "And I would like to finish it."

He wanted to. Maker, did he. But common decency toward his brother, considering their location, demanded at least a token objection. "We're in Alistair's study, you know."

One of her hands cupped the back of his head as she maneuvered around the chair to sit on his lap. "I don't care. Do you?"

In answer, he splayed his left hand over the small of her back, while the other went gently to the back of her head, as she was doing to him. Then he pulled her closer, leaving their mouths only a hair's breadth apart, and whispered, "No," before he kissed her.

She was instantly as demanding as he was, driven by the same frantic restlessness of putting to good use what moments they had left. He worked at the buckles near the top of her brigandine, determined reveal whatever skin he could. Then he gave up on that and went for the buckles at the bottom in order to reach the laces of her breeches underneath, which he then loosened enough to delve inside her smalls. Maker, she was ready, she was more than ready, and she only half-stifled a moan as he explored. Then she responded in kind, shoving his arms out of the way to untie his breeches, jerk down his smalls, and find him as insistently ready as her. She stepped away just long enough to tug her own breeches and smalls entirely off, while he hurriedly pushed down his own, not wanting to waste more time than they already had.

Then she returned as fast as she'd gone away to sink down onto him, her warmth as familiar as home. When she tilted her head back as their hips settled together, her throat was bared to him. He kissed a line up the crosshatches of her tattoos there, then along her jaw to return to her mouth when she straightened enough for him to reach it. The kiss didn't last long, not as it was punctuated by the ragged gasps of a fast-approaching end. He could easily tell she wouldn't need anything else to help her along, not with how quick and purposeful her movements had become. His weren't much slower, his fingers pressing into her hips as he sharpened the angle and increased the lovely friction between them. He continued to match her pace even as she increased it, and then she whimpered and tipped forward in a release so strong that it immediately brought his own along with it. He pulled her hips to his as he rode it out, the intensity forcing his eyes shut as his head fell to her shoulder, where her brigandine thankfully muffled his groan.

Equally as muffled was his whispered, "I love you." Then followed a hushed plea he fought to leave unsaid, yet it refused to do so: "Don't leave me."

Her body completely still, her answer came in a string of Elvish that took him a few moments to decipher. "_Abelas, emma lath_. _Ar din'nuvenin ven, dar nadas vir. Ma'arlath, abelas._" _I'm sorry, my love. I don't want to go, but it has to be this way. I love you, I'm sorry._

The silence returned, their best efforts having failed to drown it out.

"I'm not going to cry," Líadan said, her head still pressed into where his neck met his shoulder.

"Please don't," he found himself saying, "because then I'd have to question my performance."

She laughed, and her breath against his neck made him shiver. But it broke whatever held them to inaction, clearing their heads as much as they could be, letting them set themselves to rights—along with Alistair's study—and leave to make preparations. If any of the guards outside gave them strange looks, they didn't care enough to notice. More important things, more important people, held their thoughts captive as they headed for their rooms, and then the Warden compound and their waiting children.


End file.
